That's an Orc of a Different Color
by Eyes like Dawn
Summary: Caewyn Strongspear is a proud orcish warrior. Unfortunately she has no idea she is a human. Raised by orcs, her tale of beginnings is one swathed with tragedy and misfortune and a dash of good luck in the mix. Rest your axe and have a seat by the roaring fire to hearken to her tale. This is how her story, long before she was born, began and how she came to be what she think she is
1. On Durotar's Shores

_ A/N: I really, really, really wanted to get around doing my back story for my RP character. These are a handful of mini-chapters to explain her background. My characters timeline** IS NOT** lore accurate, nor do I claim it so to be. The same goes for my toon in game. The name is Caewyn on Alliance and Kaywyn on Horde. Moon Guard of course. Yes I do play the same toon on both sides. _

** Disclaimer: Blizzard owns Warcraft.**

**~8~8~**

The, rough, hostile land of Durotar was a beautiful thing at sunset. Soft, greenish gray waves rippled against the wind lapped lazily upon the tawny red sands of the harsh land like hands vainly pawing at the pomegranate sands. Sea birds wheeled languidly above the twinkling waters, riding on the hot currents of the receding day with an air of careless abandon that came with knowing another day had been survived.

The sun was a rippling orange globe dipping into the waters gray horizon and spreading glorious, final light in wondrous display over the dangerous elements. Thin, straggly clouds loitering in the sky were randomly dashed with hues of purple and pink and vermilion along their gray underbellies as they scudded along at the winds behest. The red sky promised another clear, hot day which was a promise by the relentless sun nearly always kept.

The stony, dusty land of a barren desert away from the sea was alit in the harsh blood red of the sunset. The dull scarlet of the jutting rocks and the cracked land mystically transformed into a deep rust color that painted the bluffs and the ridges in the tint of ichors of the wounded.

A color suited for the black bloods, Arun grinned sardonically at the thought as he leapt from the rowed dinghy coming to the hazardous shores. Disrupted waters lapped about his calf high, green and gold sea boots and his feet sunk into the sucking sand as he hopped from the prow. The scraping and hiss of sun heated grains against boat keel echoed only moments behind him, but he gave the familiar sound no mind. Only the sound of splashing reverberated in his head as he sloshed effortlessly the rest of the way to shore.

His brown eyes scanned the dusty, barren land as he knelt and his well worn hands mechanically loaded his gun with powder and ball. His matching gloves roved up the well polished barrel to deposit the powder from its ram horns case in the flared opening, then packed a round bullet of dwarven make inside. His hand skirted over the cheery wood stock and the tally lines carved there for how many his gun had slain with a familiar grace before he raised the gun to his shoulder. Ready and primed, the blunderbuss aimed for the shore and the open land before them.

From his left to his right marines that hopped from other boats did the same. The familiar click of metal and the scrape of mail and leather against the sand echoed in a familiar tune about the sea's edge until a long row of humans knelt in the sand in a rigid line, their guns pointed to the slowly darkening of the harsh new world. One could never be too cautious with wild black bloods roaming about, of course.

"Think we'll see any of the green skins?" a feminine voice inquired with a hushed whisper to his left.

Arun suppressed a roughish smile from the uncomfortable heat in his white plate, plumed helm. "Probably. You know how territorial the beasts are. They're probably attracted by the sun shining off our helms like moths to a flickering flame."

"Quiet in the ranks there!" another, deep officious voice practically made for yelling out over the loudest squall on the seas rebuked evenly.

Boots crunching against wet sand echoed over the lapping of the waters goading the talking pair to silence more than the voice. A singular body, clad in simple but well kept and trimmed regalia marched before the long line of dinghies planted ashore and marines ready to fire at but a word. His shoulders were straight and even keeled with their gold trimmed tassels upon the epulates and his back was like the main mast of the largest ship. Bits of gray turned into silvery platinum by the sun salted his hair. If he was even concerned of the guns he blatantly strode in front of, the fact never showed inkling upon his always in command person.

Always alert, always in command here stood the grand admiral - Daelin Proudmoore.

Turning about to face the sailors and marines alike, the admiral tugged at the golden trimmed cuffs of his sea coat before folding his hands behind his back. "All of you, sons and daughters of Kul'tiras, I commend you. Through storm and foul winds, through monsters and ills you all have stuck through this perilous journey as the best of the best. You, the bravest men and women the seas summoned and the wind tried to break, you sea dogs have come a long way from home to protect your people and make sure a threat is permanently annihilated."

Shifting his right hand forward again he thoughtfully stroked his weathered, neatly trimmed moustache that fell in a frown about his face. "For all our efforts, it's no secret we've arrived late to the party. The orcs, the black bloods, have had a chance to spread out, and breed more of their foul spawn. I won't lie when I say we have our work cut out for us. It's up to the people of Kul'tiras to fix this problem and make sure once and for all the orc threat is no more. We have the advantage, we have the power, we are the sons of the ships and the daughters of the waters. We are marines and we make sure the job gets done!" his bellowing timbre rose defiantly, booming over the waters and the land. "Are you with me?"

A wild, rabid cry rose from the marines and sailors alike from the inspirational speech. Proudmoore was not a man of many words, but when he did speak his voice was filled with conviction and power and the heart and soul he put into his leadership. Oars lofted into the air and more than a few marines, pointed their guns up and fired in exuberance from the words.

A grim smile came to Daelien's face from the spectacle of support. He trusted them all, but it was going to be a hard job. Yet, he forced back a sigh and stood straighter, someone had to do it and who better than the toughest sea dogs around?

Waving his hand for order he began to toss out commands as though still captain aboard his prized ship. "Captains I want to see you in quick council. Marines on the sand will stay on alert and ready till the last marine gets off the ship. Pass the word that each marine is to stay with his own company and crew. I want quick rallying if the orcs spring an attack and the last thing we need are marines trying to find their captains and companies in the midst of a fray. Tugging at his tunic his face softened into weary worn lines that came with the job. Talk low amongst yourself and keep a sharp eye out for the black bloods."

"Sir!" the unified, military precision cry of the marines bellowed out in recognition of his orders.

Arun's shoulder slumped low as the admiral turned away and walked parallel to the shooters. A handful of captains and more to come trailed behind him as they went off to govern amongst themselves and deliberate the orders.

"Do you think it'll be as bad as the admiral says?" the voice to Arun's left asked. No fear hemmed the voice only a distinct weariness. The journey had been a long one and now that they were at their destination fatigue of the chore still before them was felt like the lingering heat.

Shrugging, the marine licked his lips tasting acrid sweat from inside the helm. His black hair that needed to be cut again clung like glue to his forehead, making him itch. Eyes blinking away the sheen of preparation he focused his light brown eyes on the land in front of him. Now that the adrenalin from landing had simmered down, his problems came back full force in his mind. There was more pressing things than orc attacks racing through his thoughts. Far more pressing.

Forcing a shallow laugh, he shook his head faintly. "Surely not. These orcs have strength, but their stupid as the sand. We'll slay them quick and be alright. It'll be alright, Caewyn, you'll see. We'll be out of here before the baby bump is even pronounced…."

He hoped.


	2. Discovered

"Discipline." The singular word struck firm and hard like a sword blow from the admiral's thin mouth. "That is the first tenant of the marines," Daelin Proudmoore stated with no emotion.

His sharp eyes stared at the two accused marines standing at attention with disbelieving guards behind them in the lower portion of the half built fort. A dark tan from a recent sunburn stained his stoic face as his crow foot lined eyes observed the pair and the growing bump that was uncovered along the females body. "Everyone aboard my ships must observe this practice and all it holds from the lowliest deck scrubber." His eyes hardened and his lips formed into a dark scowl. "To two first class marines."

"I know," he began again, and placed his hands behind his back, "the sea can be a lonely place. We're in close quarters environs with family, friends, all we knew gone to months upon listless ocean. Companions are made… love… happens, but discipline remains number one above all of these. Our forefathers saw these situation would arise and made rules against them" A weary sigh left him. "In these times we need discipline more than ever and you two do not show the ability to follow."

Taking a step forward, Arun's whisky brown eyes burned red with tears un-shed. "Sir! None of this was Caewyn's doing. I convinced her to go against regulation."

"Silence!" Daelin's boisterous voice boomed luridly, quieting the marine. "It takes two to do these things. She already admitted there was no force. You're futility is noble, but I will have discipline even here in this land that warrants all need for ignoble action for the sake of survival!"

Turing his eyes to the silent woman, his voice softened to a rumble. "How long are you along?"

"Four and a quarter months, Sir." Caewyn replied promptly, her voice desperately trying to hide the cracking of anguish. In truth she was surprised she had made it thus far along without notice. Everyday, even in the most grueling of heat she wore loose, heavy clothes that came from her footlocker aboard her assigned ship.

The thought of a baby had crossed no one's mind and no one questioned her choices. Stares were the only thing she received and that was enough to avoid the worst of the suspicions.

Only a fainting in the heat that was prompt for her to be rushed to the medics gave away the truth. Concerned she was having a heat stroke, the mender had ordered her clothes peeled from her sweat slick body only to see the tell tale bump of a child thriving in the womb.

The healers had been prompt in telling the leaders of the companies who spread word to grim faced captains then to the admiral himself. Now they stood on bloody ground, a child in her belly in a strange land. Rules had been broken, lies had been told, and shame was upon two marines who so long fought for the good of Kul'tiras.

Eyes searching her, Daelin stroked his chin thoughtfully. "And you were never written up for dereliction of duty or slaking off?" he marveled and mused all at once at the woman's stubborn tenacity.

"No sir." She shook her head simply, her words succinct.

Shaking his head, the admiral cursed under his breath. That had to be a tough thing to do, given the hostile country they were in and the battles fought. To not fall behind with another in her belly showed strength that was needed. Shoulders fallings, the admiral took a moment of silence before speaking again. "Two tough as the storm marines." Straightening, the admiral scolded in distaste. "Though it galls me I will show you the meaning of the word discipline. We have laws for this sort of thing and even I must follow rules. They are the cornerstone of our ways."

Callously, he looked at them both, his voice void of any kindness. "As of this moment you are both dishonorably discharged from the service of the grand Alliance and the Kul'tiras marines. Your duties will be to help build our base in this land while we are here in order to pay for your transport back home when the time comes. I would have you detained but this place is its own prison. Remember, only death awaits outside our walls. After we've completed our mission you will be shipped back to Kul'tiras. What you do after you land is your own choice for to court-martialed is an option; one that I choose not to employ."

Turning away stiffly, he looked at the mess of plans and duties sprawled about the table taken from a ship the orcs had sunk in a surprise attack. His gnarled knuckles rested on the table as he focused upon the maps. "Take them away," he ordered to the guards, his words clipped to keep the sadness out his voice.

~8~8~

"All of this," Caewyn remarked bitterly to Arun, her face pinched in a scowl. "All of this because of this… thing in me."

Anger swirled like a hurricane in her heart, raging into a force none could stand. How she wished to rage and scream and curse at the being growing in her that destroyed their dreams and was the cause of their ranks they had worked so hard to obtain stripped from them and forced them into common labor. They had so many plans when their tour was over, when the orc that was over and they came home hailed as heroes.

A hand hardened by the working of the stone and rock that slowly built the keep rubbed her back gently to comfort her. The old green and gold tabard on her rustled with the movement echoing through the dark that bound them in the silence of the night.

Another month had passed them since their discharge and each day as they labored brought the reminders of that day they had been caught. Old friends no longer spoke to them and even the sailors and peasant looked upon them with pity.

Planting a kiss on the crown of her dirty brown tresses, he shifted more of the rough linen blanket her way. "Just remember our plans," he whispered against her. "We get back in one piece, send the child to the orphanage, and hop upon the ship to a place nobody knows our names." He hugged her close, listening to the beat of her pulse. "I had a little gold saved up before. We'll go anywhere you please and start a fresh. Hillsbrad, Lorderan, I even have a few dwarven friends in the Wetlands."

"I know," Caewyn breathed softer. Her hand curled around his sweat sopped tunic in a vice to belay her wrath. "It's just I feel the weight of it inside me like a chain, reminding me of what has been lost. I hate it," she growled, seething. "I hate it."

Often Caewyn was offered a chance to rest for the baby's sake but she refused, working alongside her lover in the fate that had been dealt her. She moved stone and slapped mortar upon rock in the hot sun often falling behind be continuing in a dripping mess of sweat and sometimes tears.

Perhaps some thought she clandestinely wished accident would occur and she might lose the child with all the hard labor. There was no secret she hated the child. Since their drumming out she only stared at her belly with an intense loathing.

Before they were discovered perhaps she might have had a love for the thing growing in her, but that had disappeared with her rank and her dreams.

"Don't think about it, Cae." Arun hugged her tighter though he was exhausted. His muscles burned like his sun burnt skin and the cuts revived upon his hands and arms throbbed with every heartbeat. Though he held every cause to be just as dour, he refused to look at the dark, but only the light. "Didn't you hear the news, Jaina Proudmoore is here. The admirals own daughter! Surely she had been doing battle against the orcs. This campaign is ending. I can feel it."

She looked up to him, her turquoise eyes bright as the pregnant moons above them in the silken bed of night. "You really think so?" her voice cautioned hope

"I know so." Arun wrapped her in his arms tighter. "I know so. It's no secret things have nearly hit rock bottom," he chuckled against her skin. "I don't think it can get any worse."

~8~8~

Daelin Proudmoore was dead.

The fact swirled through Arun's mind like a ship caught in a treacherous whirlpool that refused to engulf the vessel. His steps were numb as he stacked stone and slapped mortal in-between with a half broken spade that cut at his hand. The scraping noise was lost to his ears as his thought sat caught with the knowledge that had come back into the fort only the night before.

Their indomitable leader was dead. Not by the brutal hands of the orc. Not by the cruel, harsh elements. Not even by a twisted hand of fate. But by a monstrous half-orc thing. Of course death was a constant shadow over any in the wild, red land, even the admiral but the way he had gone had been astounding.

What was worse? They said Jaina, his own daughter saw the body, perhaps even saw the deed done and let the orc leader and the murderer go free to their fledgling city being constructed in the northern area of the land.

Jaina wished for peace with the orcs. A peace she would hold even if it meant the life of her own father. That, if anything, was known perfectly well, and the marines despised her for it.

Though Daelin was strict and immovable at times he had been a worthy admiral. Even he could respect the dead Proudmoore even after the demotion and removing of rank. He did what needed to be done, treated his people fairly and followed rules. There weren't many like Daelin in the world and now he was gone.

Not only was he gone, the orcs had burned ships as well. From A flotilla of 30 ships only 5 were thought to be even, dubiously, worthy of repair by their crafty shipwrights. They would be the only escape, if, they indeed thought of escape. As it was the captains were deliberating rather to stay or slink back home in shame without their admiral and the orcs thriving in a newly erected city.

Though the sensible thing to do was repair their vessels, vengeance burned like fire in every heart and the hatred for the orcs roared in an inferno. Passion swelled in every chest to avenge their admiral and keel haul orc, half-orc, and daughter who were responsible.

Many wanted to stay to see the job done as their leader instilled in them to do. Even the ones who wished to head back refused the portals that could have been crafted by the traitorous orc-lover Jaina. In all outward appearances, they were decidedly stuck in a land rife with orcs and trolls and those who formed as it was being called, a new Horde in the harshest waste they had known.

"Water, Arun," Caewyn stated emotionlessly, disrupting his thoughts, as she scooted beside the man she loved.

Handing him a water skin she uncorked the faded green skin to keep the grit of mortar from steeling inside. A look of chagrin constantly etched her face as she went about with water canteens for the workers. The medics had finally gotten their way and the captains were persuaded she would not do much of the hard work. She was seven months along since her demotion and showed every month.

With a nod of thanks, Arun guzzled down the life giving water the sun tried to steal away.

"What are we to do, Arun?" Caewyn asked as he finished slurping down the waters coolness and wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. For the first time since he had known her a sliver of fear punctured her voice.

"We'll think of something," he replied gently and dabbed his lips with his tongue. "Life always goes on, Cae. The bad gets better," replied the former marine optimistically.

Normally his words of optimism always stirred her from her melancholy. As of late no words could penetrate the dourness she felt. Perhaps it was of the coming pregnancy or not, but she was quieter now, always looking for the bad.

"No." The word came out with soft, but harsh finally. Taking the canteen, the woman shook her head as she turned away. "No Arun, I don't think we're ever going to leave here."

"Don't speak such thing," he comforted and placed a hand on her shoulder.

Frozen by his touch the woman stood stiff and quiet. The bottles at her side sloshed with water as she stood. Hope sprung in Arun's heart as she stilled. Perhaps his hope would spur her lugubrious nature away from the bright woman he had met upon the journey to the wild new land.

Abruptly a sigh shuddered through Caewyn. Hefting the frayed, pale leather straps of the canteens more secure over her shoulder, she walked away, her fatalistic words ringing with prophecy in his ears.


	3. Birth

_ A/N: Per usual italics signify dreaming or anything out of body._

**~8~8~**

_ Dull white seagulls wheeled and argued happily overhead of Arun like squabbling children in the dusky twilight overlooking the tranquil Wetlands. Frogs rolled their croaking songs from the swamp land and the crickets had already summoned up their symphonies to lull the night. _

_ The former marine smiled and blew a halfhearted breath to knock the long, black hair that lay shaggy over his eyes as he let the sounds of home wash over him. Once kept in a curt military fashion, his hair had grown out just as it had when he was a carefree lad and now he allowed his tresses freedom. Barely moving he lifted a hand and adjusted the worn rim of his brown fishing hat over his eyes to deflect the glare of the setting sun from his direct vision. He was fishing up him and his wife's latest meal which they would cook in their inn. _

_ Flicking his right wrist he sent out another cast of a fishing pole that sat so familiar in his hand. The metal sinker plopped perfectly into the pristine waters off the coast of the Wetlands and the red and white bobber floated lazily on the waves in the tale of a cast done right. _

_ The cries of happy dwarves roared about him and the salty smell of the sea filled his senses with peace. A content smile found anchorage upon his face as he took a sip of cold Badland Bourbon from a metal flask in homage to the reveling dwarves somewhere in the small town._

_ Sighing, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes in utmost enjoyment. This, he exalted inwardly, now this was life. _

_ With a sigh he placed an arm behind his head and sunk into the fishing chair on the dock. Putting his pole into a certain niche in his chair, he reeled in the bobber once again for no particular reason at all but for the sake that he could. He didn't even care if the loud dwarves were scaring away the fish. He just wanted to enjoy the peace and last of the sun he'd been dozing in and out under all the day long. _

_ As he cast out his line again the screaming began to become louder. His face wrinkled in confusion as he shifted in his chair. The screams were no longer raucous dwarves in merry revelry but ones of pain. _

_ Abruptly his bobber ducked beneath the water with a suction sinking. The pole dipped in his hands, the tip almost touching the twinkling water. Leaping to his feet, like a man afire, the screams forgotten yet pounding in his ears all at once, he jerked at the pole to catch the hook then allowed a modicum of slack as he reeled in. _

_ His hand was a blur as he reeled in the catch his bobber foretold on the hook. Giving an taking, he slowly brought the fish up, making it dance to his tune so as to not snap the line. The line made a sharp whizzing sound of string being reeled as he cranked the lever in a feverish frenzy. _

_ A smile carved his face as he felt the fight with the fish slacken. Though the fish seemed to have given up to fate the thing had to be huge!_

_ As the hook came up, he looked down eagerly at the waters. Eagerness melted into horror in one chilling moment as he hook surfaced with Caewyn stuck upon the hook, the tip coming out of her still pregnant belly. _

"The baby!" Caewyn screamed frenzied, snatching Arun awake from his dreams.

Eye jerking open the former marine twisted his head to the right to look at the woman beside him on the thin pallet. Leaning on an elbow, the woman clasped at her distended belly. A damp spot of water stained the blanket below her waist. Tears dripped from her eyes as she cried out in the pangs of arduous labor. "The time! The time has come!"

~8~8~

"The time has come warriors of the Horde!" An orc rumbled savagely to a crowd of people that now called themselves a nation. Standing on a rough rocky ledge, a torch in one hand, axe in the other, the orc cut a barbaric figure in the pitch night. Light glinted off his white tusks and puckered, pink scars trailed like worms just below his taunt green flesh.

Below him a mixture of tauren, trolls and orcs milled beneath the outcrop. All faces upturned to him, they met his words with cheers and fist raised to the night. Weapons glinted in their hands as they stood ready for bloodshed. Fresh paint adorned the faces of those who gathered and eyes glinted for battle that needed no real prodding in the first place.

Raising his hand with the keen, crescent axe, the orc addressed the bloodthirsty mass. "The cities gates have been built. The warrior city hewn in the very rock of this harsh land. We from the blood of our ancestors and the memories of our heritage have carved a home on this world." His voice barked and hateful snarl. "And what do we have not a days journey from the city? Humans! Dirty little pink skins that encroach upon our new kingdom in the orcish way! They will not leave us in peace. The will not leave us be! The time to strike them has come."

A roar of agreement akin to that of thunder echoed about the stone. Fist beat upon chest and cries of "for Durotar" spilled freely from smiling faces.

"We will break done the stone. Loot the spoils, burn the timber!" The orc bellowed and white froth hedged the edges of his tusks. "One by one, we will kill their strongest warriors until they are no threat to the orcish people! The time has come warriors." He pointed his axe to the way of Tirgarde Keep. "To war!"

~8~8~

"It's almost time," the grim faced, grizzled medic announced officiously, his voice rigid to the woman laying flat upon the wooden table before him. The white trim of his thinning hair dripped sweat as he stood at her feet, sending small spells of healing about the woman to relieve the worst of the pain of the birth.

Sweat brooked like water from Caewyn's face, turning her skin into a waxy sheen against the torchlight. Arching her back to the rafters, her mouth twisted in pain and another scream filled the makeshift ward. Eyes screwed shut she arched again to the roof, the tears breaking through her closed lids. In one hand her dog-tags were clutched firmly in her hand, the steel digging into her palm as she squeezed.

Some claimed birth was the worst pain to undergo, and at the moment she could believe the tales and feared them all at once.

"Hang on," Arun pleaded to his love. Hands squeezed tight over hers he gripped her clenched fist until he though he might break her hand. In a bout of inspiration, he slipped off his own dog-tags he forced them into her other hand, adding to the metal she could clutch in her agony. Sparing a quick glance at the healer he turned back to his woman and stroked the strings of hair glued to her sweaty face. "It'll be alright, it'll be alright."

"That's it," the healers muffled voice prompted. Despite his disapproving countenance eagerness filled the edges of his assured voice. "Almost… one more push, yes, yes I see the head!"

Summoning all her strength with a last push the dishonored woman finally bore the burden she carried to the wilds of Azeroth and the wildest land their world offered. From her cry, almost like an reflection of another, a strong wail filled the air. The keening of a little one's healthy new born lungs rang about the room drowning the mothers former cry.

"A girl," the medic announced emotionlessly, his voice coming in sharp gasps from the excitement. Shearing the cord with a dagger, the healer hefted the bloody baby in his arms. "A strong girl."

Blinking hard, as though prodded by the simple words, Arun turned to the doctor again. His visage was strange and foreign as he looked at the small, pink being still coated with fluid and blood. The small tuft of hair on her head was brown and matted and her eyes, when he saw past the tears were brown like his.

They had so many plans, none that involved a child, but seeing her….

Swallowing hard, he gave a small kiss to Caewyn's brow before taking a wary step to the medic. For all his muscle and strength he seemed akin to a weedy boy just grown into his gangly body. "Can I…," his swallowed hard, his voice cracked and thin, "can I hold her."

For a moment the healers worry lined face softened into thin lines. "Of-"

"Horde!" A lookout's voice cut through the crying of the child.

At once bells began to sound from the top of the keep and plated boots clanked down the wooden corridors with but that one word that said so much.

"We're under a-" the shouted word was cut off in a bloody gargle, but no more warning was needed. This was a surprise attack set at a time they had fallen into a lull.

"Light preserve us!" the healer made a quick holy gesture with his free hand. His aged eyes looked to Arun who stood to his right, his muscles tense and his face alert. "Grab your old armor Arun we'll need every man and woman to fend off this attack!" he yelped. Looking down to the babe he only started into her light brown eyes before snapping his head up again. "I'm needed outside."

Head swiveling like on a pin, Arun searched for a place to keep the bundle. The room was barely furnished for special operations like an amputation or extraction. Only a few clear bottles of potions and squat green jars of poultices were lined on the wide table. Except for that there was only a blood encrusted drain in the floor, a tripod table and… "The chest." Arun pointed out in the corner, his voice panting.

"Yes," the medic hugged the now quieting girl tighter. "The bandage chest."

Hurriedly both men raced to the dull brown chest. Wrenching it open with one hand, Arun held the bloody baby girl. For a moment he looked into her brown eyes so much like his own. Her tiny fist, still slick with blood grasped for him.

"Everything will be alright," he promised in a low, husky voice before placing her in the chest.

In an instant the baby girl became an island in the sea of tawny linen and white woolen bandages. Not a sound came from her mouth but she looked at her father with a twinkling brightness of new life.

"Light keep you safe," Arun prayed solemnly as he closed the chest. The latch closed with a click and no noise was heard from the vessel.

Peeling off the apron he used for birthing the babe, the healer tossed the bloody fabric in a corner. "Hurry, Arun," he warned as he marched away. "We haven't a moment to waste."

"Arun," Caewyn's weak voice finally ghosted faintly in the air.

Turning to her, her voice the enchantment upon his heart, Arun lumbered toward the tired woman upon the table. His trembling fingers, slick with the blood of his firstborn smeared her face. "Hey," his words were gentle to her. "You did great. She's a lovely child, she had her mothers nose and her strength."

"How… is... she," her face turned towards the chest. Her pulse pounded against her swanlike neck and the tears lay slick upon her face.

"She's beautiful," Arun described softly. "Our little girl."

A faint smile twitched upon her mouth. All of the hatred that had once marred her face had disappeared. "Our… our…."

"They've set the keep aflame!" the medic cried out from down the hall. The familiar sickening sound of flesh being hewn with the keen edge of blades and the stomaching churning crunch of maces clashed perniciously down the corridor in the ancient tune of battle.

A flash of holy light bloomed through the dark hall before dying away. "They're inside. Th-"

From the ward, the fight could only be seen by the shadows. The shadows on the walls danced like murderous puppets in a dangerous jig. The human silhouettes twiddled his fingers, his mouth shouting a spell right as the bulging arm of an orc wielding a spear plunged the weapon into the medic's breast. Blood spurted like a geyser from the human's mouth and the shadow slipped further unto the spear with the dead weight only for the orc to kick the body away with a steel boot.

The body stood straight for a moment before dropping to the side, the shade still twitching with the last vestiges of life.

In what felt like moments, thick, black smoke filled the room. The dry wood so painstakingly harvested from the worst ship caught aflame like dry grass. A deafening crash hit the keep from a boulder thrown from a catapult and blocks of rubble rained down upon the heads of those stuck inside.

From the dust and the smoke, Arun saw the figure of a burly orc enter the room like a monster torn from a nightmare. Its head twisted from side to side rapidly, trying to stake out a threat. Like magnets their eyes connected and the battle was established in their hearts.

Grabbing the dagger from the table, Arun tossed the worn dagger from hand to hand with practiced ease. Working with stone and the timber had given him muscles his marine training had slacked upon. In the low room and the light he looked a fair match for the orc.

"You'll not have this, my family, black blood," Arun snarled out, his whisky eyes ablaze. Since his enlistment he had always fought for the Alliance, for the humans and dwarves and gnomes. Now, he fought for family. To protect his love and the new born was his calling now and no other.

Barking some battle cry in orcish, the brute lifted his vein-y, knotted arm to the roof in calling upon his Ancestors before charging the human. His red and black spear was like a large arrow aimed right for the gut of the human.

Racing towards one another, their eyes locked, the clash of the two was tremendous. Ducking under the large spear the orc held, Arun balled his left hand into a fist and rammed the fist upon the orcs chin.

Blood and tooth shards sprayed from the orcs snarling maw from the blow. Head snapping up sharply, the lumbering brute reeled back. No human had ever dealt so hard a blow to him before!

Using the knife in his right hand, Arun stabbed down aiming for the neck of the foe.

With a roar, the orc shot his arm up instinctively to defend himself. The knife sunk to the hilt into his right forearm but that was better than his jugular. Jerking his punctured hand down, the brought the same injured arm to round upon the human. He would have surely seen a hit coming from his uninjured arm, but the best strikes came for those that were thought weak.

Arun's world spun as the meaty fist of the orc slammed into his temple. His face scrunched in pain as his body was thrown to the side from the massive blow. The keep, which felt like the entire world to him, rumbled and shook dangerously with another catapult his as he was thrown. A cloud of dust fell in a whoosh of breaking stone as he hit the wall.

A sharp crack emanated from the back of his head as his figure hit the crumbling stone walls. Something wet squished behind him but he had no sudden urge to scream from the disgusting sound. The world seemed to phase out for Arun as he slid down the wall.

Vaguely, the human felt the sense of his own essence flooding out of him from his head. His vision, swarmed with smoke and dust swayed dizzily, his eyes unable to focus. Turning the rest of his head as best he could the human sought the last place he saw his love. At least that he could do.

Pain shot like an arrow to his heart as he saw the ruin caused from the last blow of the catapult. Thick beams, smoldering with fire and rubble covered the table like a funeral cairn. Heavy white stones that had taken lifts and pulleys covered her body and squeezed her flat. Only her hand, with her dog-tags lay out of the mess that had fallen upon her, looking like some deflated mockery of life. Blood dripped down the curve of the metal tags and swung limply from her grasp like an old toy.

"Caewyn!" he heard himself scream with the last of his life. The words, he knew he spoke, but they sounded so far away. "Caewyn!"

Blood spurted from his lips as he felt the cold fingers of death pluck the strands of his soul and unbind him from his mortal husk. His eyes stayed clamped upon her funeral pyre, refusing to let his sight leave the last part of her sticking out. "It'll be alright," his lips moved with the last bit of life in him though no sound came out as he died with the words on his tongue, "It'll be alright…."


	4. Fate's Hand

"Victory!" Graul Strongspear roared in a hacking cough of oily black smoke as he stumbled from the crumbling ruins of the keep. Billows of wretched, acrid vapor clawed about him and shred their ethereal talons against his sweat stained skin as he appeared from the ruing stonework. Spear in one hand, he staggered out, his wounded arm hugging close to his body.

Graul Strongspear was not an orc to regard lightly in any regard. Tall, thickly adorned with muscles, and mapped with scars from a life of battle after battle, he was not an orc to fall quickly. His skin was a marsh dark green and his eyes were of coal black to match his long, oily sable hair.

Sturdy and reliable, there was no better to have by anyone's side than the spear wielding warrior. He was always the first to rush into battle and one of the lasts to walk out.

"You executed the rest of the pig inside, old friend?" the leader of the war party asked as Graul stumbled out from the wreckage.

Snapping a bloody fist still curled over his spear, to his stained chest the smiling orc nodded. "It is so. The enemy lay dead in their own keep, adrift to the realm of death in the sea of their own blood,' he confirmed happily.

"You're certain," the leader pressed staunchly in a growl, "the last thing I need is for a leader to be hiding in some cubby awaiting to rally the pink skins who abandoned their kin once they slink back here after we leave."

While the blood of humans stained the dust, many had simply taken off. They wouldn't be able to catch them all, but their forces were dwindled enough where they wouldn't be a problem unless a leader remained. There destruction had to be so absolute while those who managed to slip away in the tumult would pose no threat. Their fates would be to live in fear, scrounging off the land, providing always the hint of what could happen to the orcs if they slackened their guard, and for their young warriors to test their mettle upon.

"My mate would not tell you otherwise," a rough, feminine voice snapped from behind the interrogating orc.

Striding up to the burly war leader, Shala Strongspear gazed covetously over her husband. Tall, limber, and strong of limb, Shala Strongspear was a warrior born. Her skin was pale emerald and her tusks set just so upon her lips to prove dangerous and sensuous all at once. Her ears were adorned with bone and gold rings and her hair reddish black hair was bound in a long topknot. A large axe inscribed with tally scores on the handle sat strapped to her back betwixt her shoulder blades.

Ignoring the war leader she slipped past the grim orc and pressed a hand to his arm oozing black blood from a narrow slit. "You're hurt," she stated in her typical no nonsense manner.

"At least I live," Graul rumbled and flashed his woman a wolfish grin showing rows of yellowed teeth sharpened into points. "The same cannot be said for the pink skins."

Shala suppressed a tusk-y grin and playfully slapped him against the head with a bloody hand. "Fool. We'll have to find a shaman to mend your wound before we take our war prizes. All the good fine arms will be gone whilst we wait for this one to be healed."

"You could go without me," he suggested with an almost careless demeanor and a shrug. The tips of his ears wiggled in the way they did with he was disappointed but would not say a word.

"Never my love," Shala declared fiercely and gripped a muscled arm. "We are one. Now let us find a healer. Your blood is more value to me than all the riches of this pig keep."

~8~8~

"This it?" Shala asked in a cough as she pushed a still warm beam of fragile timber out of her path. The charred wood crumbled as it landing upon the blood stained wood. A geyser of flaky black particles filled into the air taking red-orange beams into the desolation.

Graul nodded and rubbed his healed arm wrapped in a torn tabard. The limb still itched from the healing that the shaman had invoked upon his flesh, knitting the wound to only a bloody scratch. "Yes. I saw it here. If we're lucky those other vultures missed it."

"I doubt they would have ventured far in here," Shala observed as she looked around the rubble strewn room. "Nothing much around. Probably an infirmary for their weak blood."

Whatever had been in the room before was mostly barren. The room had been all but picked clean if there had been anything to begin with. A human male who's head had been struck hard against the wall lay like a broken puppet tossed away and forgotten. The cloths upon his body had been stripped off, leaving him with no dignity and his brains crusted in a long line from the wall down to his cracked skull. His paled, sightless eyes looked over to the other side of the room.

Across from him a pale hand swung from beneath the rubble. The pinky finger had been taken off from the hand as someone war trophy. Blood encrusted tags hung from her hand where none had bothered to take them. What good were a few human names on metal?

Scanning the room, her heart sank to find anything left of value. While battle was a reward in its own right they could not simply live on blood. They had a family to rear.

"There it is." Graul slowly stomped over to the wooden chest. The chest was blocked by a beam of wood, not half burned but cracked. The wood, charred and smoking, mingled with the same colored as the chest, nearly camouflaging it. No one would have looked over a barren room that well anyway to notice it.

"A chest," Shala gasped in delight, her mood transforming into hope. "Graul you failed to mention it was a trove."

Another grin donned his thick lips and he straightened proudly. "I wanted to surprise you."

"There's sure to be something valuable in it." She padded up quickly beside him.

Kneeling down, she tugged at the chest until it popped free. The beam fell in a heap and dust rose as she backed off with the prize in tow.

Hefting the chest in one surge of strength, her face fell for a moment. "Feels light."

"A cache of jewels doesn't have to feel heavy, my woman," Graul grunted as he took the other end of the chest with his hand. "Or a heaping of exquisite silks," he chuckled, letting his imagination roam with the possibilities.

Walking with the chest betwixt them, Shala turned her head and arched an incredulous brow in his direction. "You think humans would bring such things? I heard they like to travel lavishly, but even in this harsh land?"

He shrugged. "Who knows what a human would do. You can never tell. Some how they always surprise you."

~8~8~

Dawns first light was just kissing the tops of the red rocks as the war party rode back into the Valley's gates. Though early, the cracked paths were lined with happy, barbarous faces who let their glee be known.

Cheers echoed wildly from those who had stayed behind to watch of farm and animal. Cries of delight to see returning warriors and gasps at the spoils bought from the keep filled the heating air. Even from the village of Sen'jin the troll's drums could be heard and the smells of cooking flesh drifting through the air in rare celebration that was, once in a while, unnoticed by those who swore to practice Thrall's tenants. Though prohibited, even the Warchief looked away from the now frowned upon actions of the trolls once in a while.

Deviating from the return path, Graul and Shala spurred their wolves to the more barren part of the valley tucked away near a ridge. Riding in peaceful quiet for a short distance they finally arrived in the shadow of their home.

Carved from red rock and thatched with scarlet tiles, the Strongspear home looked like any traditional orcish home save for the makeshift additions that extended the home into some amalgamation of an orcish dwelling. The wooden pens to the stables for the few pigs set close to the house. The wolves, family themselves, slept inside with the family. Additions from Graul's on hands made the extensions to the house into the patchwork oddity it was.

The home was larger than most, but not fecundate. They were never wealthy orcs, but there was more to living than just wealth. Their home was not an affluent one, but it suited their needs and all of those therein.

"Matron! Father!" Tiny orc voice squealed in delight as the pair neared their red stone home.

Little orcs, two sets of twins and three separate pups, seven all told, the oldest only just growing into his training stumbled out of the home like a green wave. Tiny shrieks of delight filled the air and seven pairs of feet kicked up dust.

Standing in the doorway after the children had rolled out, a small troll woman with white hair looked out lovingly from the door way. Her bony arms were crossed over a simple blue dress as she leaned on the side.

Leaping from their mounts, the pair scooped up all seven rambunctious boys in their arms, Shala three, Graul with the four in his wide grasp.

"Our fine growing sons!" Graul rumbled happily and spun them about. His arm twitched in pain, but just to see them swelled life into him.

"How were they, Ta'ni?" Shala queried as the boys scrambled out of her grasp to leap upon their father for a ride.

A tusk-y grin etched the wizened trolls face. "Ah, dey was handfuls as always," she chuckled warmly in her crone cackle.

"Thank you so much for watching them," Shala strode up to the elder troll and clasped her hand fondly.

Ta'ni was their saving grace when matters had to be dealt with. Graul was gone at times on his guard duty and she was oft called upon to fend the land off from angry quill boars. While the boys spent plenty of times with both parents they still had many times where they were both gone at once.

Laughing in her shrill, aged way she batted a hand at the orcess. "Ya know I dun mine. They is a joy at watch." Her eyes twinkled for a moment behind Shala at the grown, bloody orc acting like a boy himself rolling about and pretending to be caught in holds by his boys. "If'n ya wants I kin take dem ovah to my hut and let ya both have a few hours a rest." She looked them both over with eyes that had seen much and new the signs of fatigue. "Ya bot look like ya could need et."

Shoulders slumping for a moment, the orcess' lips twitched in relief. "Ta'ni you're a gift from the Ancestors."

"Don't I know et," the troll widow cackled and padded to the seven, uproarious boys. The young killers had swarmed their father who laid belly down laughing boisterous with his sons who clawed at the thick ropes of his oily black hair, hung on his tusks, and jumped on his back, begging him to tell them of his kills.

"Comon ya rascals," Ta'ni grinned at the lads. "Ya parents be needin' time alone. Ya come on wit ole Ta'ni and we make some cactus apple surprise. I even heard dey got some scorpid trouble 'round Sen'jin. Ya kin work on killin' da pests!" she coaxed to sweeten the bargain.

In an instant the boys scrambled from their father like lads afire. Jumping and pushing and fighting in a cloud of dust they followed the old troll their minds upon cactus apples rather than their parents.

Rising from the dust, chuckles spilling from his mouth, Graul wiped the red dirt from his blood encrusted body and looked up. The eyes of his wife sat stapled upon him intently, her lips quirked in disapproval. "What?" the word came with feigning confusion. She too oft called him just a big pup himself, which, many a times, he knew he was deep down.

Yet, he also knew she loved him for that quality as well.

Shaking her head her lips formed into an all suffering smile. "Come, husband, let us get out of the sun and look at our treasures."

The coolness of the ramshackle house was as relief to both man and woman as they crossed the threshold with their gains. The loyal wolves made themselves comfortable by the fire pit and sat to doze as they tended to their treasure.

For a family of seven rowdy boys the house was surprisingly clean. The rough hewn table and benches had only a few left over shreds of food swiped on them and only a couple of mock weapons littered the floor. While the boys slept in two bedrooms and he and she had their own room into the back of their hovel.

Hauling the chest by himself Graul followed behind his wife to their chamber. "What do you think is in here, my woman?" he queried finally then cursed as he stepped on a toy mace.

"Honestly?" she breathed in a sigh and moved the thin covering of fabric over their rooms door. "Clothes, tabards. I can dye them and repurpose them for the boys. Ancestors know even the hand-me-down's are looking far too threadbare for my tastes!"

Providing for seven growing sons was quite a challenge. Each of them seem to grow overnight like magical plants. When they hit their teen years there was a very real fear they would eat them out of everything!

"Probably," Graul grunted as he lay the chest down by the furs of their bed. As Shala went to strip herself of her weapons in the corner, Graul flicked open the chest with his free hand, still speaking carelessly. "Maybe there will be a hidden treasure. Something we wouldn't…."

Shala laughed softly and leaned her axe on the wall. "Wouldn't what, my man? Wouldn't dream of?" she chuckled at the ridiculous idea.

Running a hand through her dark red hair she tugged at the bloody tangles her mind ready to retort anything from his wild mind that he could toss at her. His roaming thoughts were oft amusing but she did like to keep him grounded sometimes.

Lines of incredulousness wrinkled her teal skin at his stone silence. "Graul?" she huffed, mildly apologetic. "You know I didn't mean any…." she paused as she turned around.

The hulking orc kneeled at the open chest, both hand firmly upon the sides. His face was slack in the utmost surprise of his life. His dark eyes were like black moons and his tusks sagged agape.

Excitement filed the orcess as she raced over to him. Her heart danced to a wild beat, taken away by his previous suggestions of wealth. Had his imagination finally struck true? Were they star rubies? Black diamonds?

"Husband what…." her words dropped off again in the same shocked shared with her husband as she looked down into the chest.

In the chest sat not a hoard of jewels, gold, or even clothes. Inside of the chest lay a silent, human baby girl who looked at them with light brown orbs.


	5. Decisions

Silence reigned in the shadowy home for what felt like eternity. The only sound was the soft gurgling of the baby free from the bandage coffin that succored her safety into the hands of two orc warriors.

Her impossibly tiny arm, puzzled with dried fluids, extended upwards and her blood crusted fists flexed at them as though asking the silent supplication to be picked up. Her light brown eyes stared at them both though no tears welled in their depths.

She seemed a healthy, new born babe, and nothing could have surprised the pair of orcs more.

"Ancestors preserver us…," Shala finally muttered after long minutes of deep shock. Her hand fell upon Graul's left shoulder as though needing him to keep her aright least she keel over.

Blinking owlishly, Graul simply stared, his mind barely caught up to the shock in his body. Questions spun like a blade master in his head, shredding his shock and leaving the blood of inquiry draining from the cuts. "A human pup…," he finally babbled aloud. Part of him thought the noise would awaken him from whatever dream of enchantment he had succumbed too, but there it still laid, looking at them, grasping up at them.

From the front of the home the two fully grown wolves padded back to the last room. The female of the pair, both charcoal black, inched over to the chest. Her wet nose wiggled at the scent of strange blood and she stuck her nose inside. Sniffing curiously, the worg began to lick at the girl, cleaning the crusted blood from her body.

A small sigh escaped Shala's lips at the sight. Her war wolf always had a good judgment and though she was still in shock, a tinge of calm whispered back into her heart.

Sinking down by her husband's side the woman shook her head, her eyes never leaving the baby. "What…? What was it…? how did we…?"

Observing the child even in her confusion, Shala marked the clues left upon the girl to tell the tale. The blood of her birth was never cleaned off and by her fervent grasping she had not been fed. Even a bit of the pale cord lay to her side to speak what she could not. She had to have been born only hours ago.

Shala marveled at the tiny baby as her mind trailed down the war path that had led them to the keep. How she was still alive was a miracle in and of itself with all the battle and destruction that had been achieved.

"This is.… how're we… what do we…" Graul let his words fall off, uncertain he could finish any train of thought at the moment.

Rubbing a war calloused hand against his grizzled face the orc took a deep sigh. Seriousness molded his face like a carving as he stood up. With the discovery of the girl the playful Graul was gone leaving the orc that had to think of somber things. "Shala," he began in a rumbling sigh to help straighten out the problem, "there is a human pup in our home," he stated simply, if just for another hope the words would do the trick and the matter was all a dream that he knew, terribly, was oh so real.

Nodding, Shala grimaced and picked up the line of his thoughts. "Her parents are most certainly dead. She's so young. They had to belong to the couple in the room." Surely no others could have been the parents. Everyone else had been out fighting.

Graul, for all his toughened exterior, flinched at that. Though he detested humans, the man who fought against him with little more than a dagger had done so to defend what was probably his family.

That was an honorable thing to strive for in Graul's estimation, and he silently sent a prayer to the spirits for the man he had fought against.

"The elders of the valley will not be pleased to hear of this." Graul stomped back and forth in a vapid, lumbering pace as he spoke. His steps scuffed along the dirt in a tempo of rustling red dirt against plate boots with every contemplating step.

No one had expected a child to be conceived by the humans in the keep. That was a contingency none had bought up in the plans to rend the human fort asunder and watch in disdain as the spattering of survivors became prisoners of the keep they once boasted, cowering in fear of the orcish dominance that gripped the land and could not be stopped.

Shala scowled at his words, her mouth a thin, off green line. There were some elders whose hate of humans went very far. They would do nothing to help a child and perhaps try to persuade the offing of the human pup as a "mercy killing". "You know as well as I the elders will do nothing to help the child. They would probably not even send word to the Proudmoore woman that we had one. Better to simply put it on the side of the road and let nature take it's course."

"We can't give it back to the humans," Graul added on, taking up her thoughts were they ended. "The last thing we need is another sword against us, or some poster child for orcish victory to rally more Alliance." He could see the image now, word spreading of a girls parents killed by orc "savages" and worried humans lining up to stop such a nightmare from happening to their own. No, that would never do.

Abruptly, a sigh tumbled from his mouth, his face softening into distraught, torn line. Turning to the chest, his shoulders slumped. "Yet, we can't simply leave her to die." Graul growled and danced the rough pads of his fingers along his chin. "That would be a high dishonor to not even give a pup a chance."

They both knew what thought danced in their heads, but neither wished to speak the stupendous idea straight-out.

"She's human," Shala quietly stated, testing the obvious aloud. "But there is no one else."

No one in their right mind would take a little child in these tough times of growth, orc or not. Still, Shala winced inwardly, they barely could rear seven sons and now there seemed another mouth.

But, the orcess' troubled heart softened a touch; it was a girl, an ugly, pink thing but a girl no less. For many a year her heart wished for a strong girl to show the ways, but the spirits brought her seven strapping sons. Was now her supplications being answered by erroneous fate? Had finally the girl she wished come in pink flesh and a tusk-less mouth?

Graul rubbed his chin with his left and rumbled thoughtfully, "there'll be talk."

"It's impossible not talk about something like this," Shala laughed mirthlessly, but soft to keep from upsetting the child. She canted her head, a small smile forming upon her mouth. "It… stands out."

"It's just so…." Graul looked up to her and rubbed the back of his neck with his right hand. "What are we to do with it? It's human. It might die tomorrow for all we know."

Shala shrugged, bracing for the words she had never thought in a thousand years would escape her mouth concerning a human. "We will give here the basics to live. Milk, food, shelter. If she survives she survives. If she does not she does not."

"It's the 'if she does' that bothers me," he admitted quietly. That one possibility, no matter how small dredged up a new line of questioning. "What would she be here? She's… human."

The hatred of humans burned akin to lava in their blood. Both he and his wife had slain many a pink skin and still they both would despite the girl. She would be a human living amongst human hating orcs. If they let her live what exactly would she be to them?

"She will simply have to learn her place here," Shala stated firmly and dropped her hands to her knees. "She will be a… a… a pet." She snapped her fingers in epiphany. "There. No one can argue with a pet."

Plenty of orcs had pets. They adopted all sort of things aspiring vendors in the budding Ogrimmar brought in. It would be tricky but why would a human be different?

"You think so?" his voice rippled dubiously.

"Others already think us crazy for bearing seven sons in this harsh land." She waved her hand, warming more and more to the idea that might give them credence. "It'll just enhance our reputation."

Silence pervaded the house for a moment before Graul nodded. "She stays," he declared, solidifying the thought like a vow in his mind. "I will take her to the elders at the celebration feast tonight and explain."

"She needs a name," the orcess stated suddenly. And in need of food, she reminded herself a moment later.

Fingering his chin, the bulky orc nodded. "I heard the dead man in the room call a name whilst his life slipped away. 'Caewyn, Caewyn', he screamed." He grunted and scooped up the babe. "It is fitting."

Kicking her legs happily the little girl cooed at the hulking orc. Now clean, her body glistened with worg saliva displaying her cringe worthy, pink body.

Nodding, Shala laid her head on her husband's muscled shoulder. A small smile titled her lips into an adoring smile. "Caewyn she shall be."

~8~8~

Graul clenched his scruffy, square jaw in a strong grimace as he walked towards the bonfires that burned in the center of the village. The scarlet-topaz sky smoldered in a faint haze, a slit along the darkening horizon, that back dropped the celebration. Darkness rained over most of the sky and the bright orange embers from wood freshly tossed upon the fires swirled in a smoky flue of heat into the heavens like the stars before dying into inky nothingness.

Walking in long, careful strides, the proud orc held his chin high as he neared the celebration. His family war spear was strapped to his back and a makeshift swing of brown leather swung at his front with the baby girl across his chest in the sling. Though his gait was uneven, the girl slept soundly against him with each step. After being fed the milk of wolves and rocked by the oddly smiling Shala, she had fallen into a content doze.

Hours later the boys had come home with Ta'ni on their heels. They had both introduced Caewyn to the rough boys, informing them of their new burden. The boys had marveled at the tiny being without tusks or green skin and Ta'ni had simply stared before walking back home with gales of laughter ringing from her lips.

Now, the time had come for the rest of the valley to meet the girl that had been taken in by the Strongspear family. Shala would have come along but the boys were not of age to attend the feasts and they had pressed upon Ta'ni too much. So that simply left him and the sleeping bundle to finish the task he and his wife had indentured themselves to.

Cheers of welcome and hails of victory bellowed from smiling lips of revelers as Graul walked through the celebration. One by one the cheering halted as orc and troll faces saw what hung at his chest. All eyes fell to the sling and as a result the girl sleeping therein.

Full drinking horns fell along with jaws as he strode to the main bonfire. Disbelief colored every face in a shade of incredulity. Eyes of all colors followed him in a line that led straight to the brightest fire. That hadn't been... it couldn't have been...

Ignoring them, the frowning orc stalked to the fire of the leaders. His muscled, green body looked bronzed as a Mag'har in the red flames as he stood close to the fire. His body was a silhouette in the dark, gleaming parts of his skin and his eyes as he stood in respectful, but challenging silence before the leaders of the valley. Each was a respected leader and each held sway amongst the people but he met them all with an even stare.

The elders and leaders of the war band sat around on fine gray wolf pelts in front of the largest fire per tradition. Brown bowls filled with sauces and food sat before them as they sat cross legged and dipped pieces of meat into the sauces. One by one the leaders craned their necks up, each falling into frozen shock at the sight. Their eyes bulged and widened like the twin moons as they witnessed what was certainly never thought to occur.

A single chuckle fled the last orc, Hagrum, the leader of the war party against Tirgarde, before he dipped a hunk of meat into one liquid and looked from the surrounding quiet. The charred meat and sauce dripped unnoticed on his greasy fingers as he froze at the sight of Graul, with a human girl slung before him.

Complete silence froze the celebration in rapt awe. Only the popping of wood from the flames added noise to the night that found them enchanted by a near impossible sight.

Eyes locked, Graul and the war leader stared at one another. Words crossed betwixt them silently, beginning a bout they both knew had to come.

Abruptly, a chuckle, wary and humorless fled the sitting Hagrum's lips. "What is this, Graul?" he laughed lowly and bit into the slab of flesh. Chewing thoughtfully, he made a gesture to the bundle. "That thing wont last three bites cooked right," he tried to play her presence off as a jest to diffuse the tension.

A few wary chuckles rose to the air, but Graul remained serious. Hands curling into fists he looked down at the still seated orc.

"I came to alert the elders of her presence," he came out flat with the problem. "That is all."

The sitting orcs eyes narrowed into red slits at the declaration. Giving a grunt, Hagrum slowly stood to his feet. Equal height with Graul, the war leader bored disapproval unto the stoic orc. "Have I drunk bad ale? Did I hear Graul Strongspear, the hater of humans, say he wishes to alert us to the presence of a human as though it was to be staying here?"

"I do not mince words nor do I allude. I spoke what _will_ be." Graul involuntarily cupped a hand under the sling, boosting the child into his arm.

The once only half disapproving face melted into open hostility. "It is a _human_, Graul! You cannot think of letting that thing stay here. We worked too hard to make certain they did not pose a threat in their keep to flaunt ones stench in our midst. I demand you be rid of it!" hissed the orc hatefully.

An equal chorus of agreement and dissention of disagreement arose from the revelers with the proclamation. Some saw the child only as a helpless babe whilst others saw only her skin.

"You have no right to demand that of me!" Graul roared, his instincts telling him the baby had come awake from the vicious bellowing. A thin wail sliced through the air but he ignored the shrill cry for the greater good. "The girl was taken on the ground of spoils. She is a pet, nothing more! I came here to avoid any shock when you saw her again, for she will be staying. She stands under the Strongspear namesake not her origin!"

Flat nostrils flared from the war leader as he stared at Graul. His jaw knotted with a wrath that came with a helpless knowing. He had no power over Graul or the girl. "The Warchief shall hear of this!" he swore, spittle flying in white flecks that dribbled down his rough chin.

"Go mewling to the Warchief!" Graul sneered savagely, bellowing to be heard past the crying baby. "I expected nothing less." He turned away on a heel and added, "and if you think what I have done shall not stand then you are a fool."

Fists clenched to gnarled knuckles, the war leaders, body veritably trembled in wrath. A growl like thunder rolled past his lips. "And if you think, Graul Strongspear, that girl will stay at the flimsy façade of 'pet', you are a fool."

Ignoring the prophetic words, Graul stomped away. Darkness had fallen completely as he set of to the trail back home. The girls wailing had turned to fitful mewling along with nuzzling against the orc for protection, and Graul sighed at the disturbed child. An urge to comfort her as he would his own sons flared like a bright light through his heart in yearning.

Looking around once, he slipped the sling from about his neck and held her in the crook of his left arm. At once the child settled and Graul smiled in spite of the ridicule his family was set to receive. She was so tiny and in need of a home. Let the others speak and whisper and gossip, he would keep the girl. Caewyn.

"It's not proper, even for a human to go without the spirits blessing," Graul rumbled lowly to the girl to calm her as he meandered back home. "We'll find an old friend of mine who's a shaman and give you a suitable welcome to this world." He frowned a touch as he padded along. "You will have to be tough in this world, Caewyn" Graul began again, "You will have to prove you are not a weak human. I doubt you will, but who knows, you humans are always surprising."

"And if you do," he added with a small sigh, "I shall always be there to protect you as best I can... my little one."

**~8~8~**

_A/N: I re-uploaded this chapter because I was in a hurry this morning and when I got back I wasn't satisfied, so I did a little touch-ups. Enjoy! _


	6. Life Goes On

How time passes. Like a stream time seems to meander slowly through the bucolic dale, but blink and the waters that were there before have moved to the seas. Life waxes and wanes, the lush land is molded with tracks and the deserts are visited with the rains according to their seasons. Old ones wind their way to the Ancestors through the spirit trails no man can follow until his time, cities grow into sprawling outcropping of life like an oasis, the fires slowly fall into banked embers, and children, children grow older.

A sigh slipped from Graul's pale green lips as he stared at the two children before him. Both so heavily contrasted one another the sight would have been an amazing to any who would have come across the patchwork household in Durotar.

On his left a growing, healthy orc lad with muscles just beginning to form under sun blazed olive skin stood to the height of Graul's scared knees whilst to his right a sun burnt, weed of a girl just a year younger with gangly knees and elbows that seemed to fly in every direction stood bravely looking up at him. Her honey amber hair was plaited in a frayed braid to the middle of her back and her skin was emblazoned with the harsh kiss of the sun.

Blood drained from scars on both their bodies from fighting, thick welts from a very recent switching from their father reddened their arms and legs and backsides, and the boy held a poultice smelling of peace bloom and troll herbs wrapped in a linen bandage to his left ear.

Crossing his knotted arms sternly, Graul held back another sigh as he looked down upon the growing pair. "What happened?" Before either could speak he held up a scarred finger and pointed to his son. "Drost, you first."

"We were playing arena, Popo," Drost related in his childish voice that had not yet come into the deep rumble of the eldest brother Zar'gaul. Unable to keep his fathers blistering gaze he focused on the dusty ground and kicked a pebble at his foot. "And Caewyn jumped on me and bit my ear then I fell back and hit the chicken cart of the troll and all the chickens broke from their cages and ran away."

Body rigid and unmoving, Graul flicked his gaze over to the girl. "Does this story need anymore clarification?"

Glaring over at Drost she snarled as best she could for a five year old. "I won."

"Did not!" Drost protested.

The girl sneered. "Did so!"

"Did not!"

"Did so!"

"Enough of that!" Graul bit out in a dangerous growl that told they would get more of a switching than they had just gotten if they weren't silent.

A satisfied grimace carved his weather beaten face as he stared down. "I'll decide who won, but that still doesn't negate the fact that there is a very angry chicken seller trying to gather his chickens and demanding I pay for the broken cart! For this I say the blame falls on both of you equally. In battle you must always be aware of your surroundings. One of you should have realized the cart was too close and found a way to maneuver the other in a direction that would profit you. There is no winner in a fight if both are eaten by ogres because they did not see they battle by the creatures Mound. As such you will both have extra chores mucking out the boar pens and you may not clean the weapons at the burrow for an entire week."

Neither sighed nor protested, knowing to show disapproval would be even worse than the punishment itself. They had to take their punishment without a word of complaint if they desired to be good warriors as their parents taught them.

A tinge of pride painted Graul's heart at their stoic demeanor. None of his children would complain, certainly not the stubborn of the pair before him. "As for who won the fight I ask who dealt the last blow?" His eyes again strafed over to Drost, demanding an answer.

Red dabbed his still smooth cheeks turning them into a dusky purple. "Caewyn, Popo," admitted the lad in reply. Anger and admiration both mingled in his voice. He and Caewyn, as far as all the children were concerned were a fair match. She had one and lost her fights the same as them.

"Then you know the answer. The winner will always have the last strike." Graul nodded sternly. "Now go and try to fetch good wood so that I may see if I can fashion a fix for the chicken seller."

"Yes, Popo!" both children replied simultaneously, leaping to do his bidding. Red dust flared up behind their heels as they took off to the task their father had set before them.

Allowing the pent up sigh to escape, the warrior orc smiled fondly at the two children taking off down the path. Shaking his head, a frown replaced his smile at a sudden, troubling thought gripped his mind, pulling his brain into the past. He shouldn't have been so proud of them both but he was.

Striding plaintively into his home he found his wife's over at the fire in the main room preparing supper for the dusk hours.

A greasy haunch of a roast boar cooked over the fire, being watched carefully over by his wife. Every so often she swiped a duster of fresh and dried herbs all tied together over the meat leaving small particles of leaves lodged into to the boar adding more flavor. The fire beneath the spit popped and hissed and hands of flames leaped up in a trail the grease had left adding the faintest hint of char on the meat but no burning.

Normally the sight set Graul's stomach growling like his wolf, but emotions dampened his appetite and soul. How could he eat with problems mounting inside his skull like a dam ready to burst?

"Something troubles you, my man," Shala stated matter-of-factly as she turned to him and looked into his pitted, black eyes. There was no hint of questioning in her voice. She knew him so well she could tell.

Awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck with a dusty hand, Graul stomped further into the cool darkness of their home. Settling down on the end of a bench he let his elbows drop to his thighs and hung his head so that his thick black mane fell like a veil before him. "Do you remember that night when we found Caewyn?" he inquired, his voice low as he knocked his hair away from his face and rubbed his weathered brow.

"I think I do remember one of the biggest shocks of my life." Shala smiled in jesting and concern and a tinge of fondness.

Grunting Graul shook his head. "Well… she survived. More than that. She has thrived."

Caewyn was past the years of dubious survival. She had been weaned on the milk of wolves and fed bits of meat when her teeth grew in. When she could sit at the table she fought the boys for food just as they did amidst themselves. She hadn't starved, she had fought and bit and kicked as they did and won her fair share. She ran with the boys, she fought with them, she played and acted as any other child would in their home. Even in the village she was a familiar face and many did not turn to her with disgust.

For all intensive purposes, Caewyn had found means to live and had done so without fail.

Even after Hagrum, the war leader, went to plea his hate to the Warchief nothing had occurred. The orc had come home scowling and no Kor'kron were ever sent to investigate the matter nor humans of the Theramoore place to pick up the girl.

The decision to keep her in orc lands was even more solidified by a celebration in Ogrimmar where they had taken all their children, even Caewyn. She had been met with surprise and scowls during the celebration and one soul had gone to the guards to complain of the girl. The news had been sent all the way to the Warchief's ear and surprisingly he approved of the choice. Strict orders were given to guards to let the family with the human go unharmed through the streets and though some of them may not have liked the fact, the Strongspear's had come back and forth ever since so that many had grown accustomed to the growing girls presence only solidifying her life in the hands of orcs.

"How often do you think a couple who loves one another lies to themselves so completely?" Shala queried softly after long minutes of thought.

Graul's thick brow wrinkled as he tilted his head up. "I don't follow what you mean."

"We told ourselves Caewyn would be a pet." Shala slapped the bundle of herbs across the greasy haunch again, slathering the meat with aromatic herbs as she used the time to gather her thoughts. "That didn't happen from the get go. I and you would fight anyone who dare challenge us about Caewyn. The boys call her sister, she calls them brothers. She calls you Popo and me Matron." She smiled widely. "We call her daughter. Not pet, not human, not pink skin. Daughter."

Graul waved a hand, feigning carelessness. "After seven children, every small thing that comes in here gets ranked as one of ours," he jested lightly.

A frown formed inwardly as he recalled Hagrum's words the night he left the celebration. He had been a fool to think that was all Caewyn would be, and deep inside, he was not ashamed of that fact.

"Be serious, Graul," Shala admonished quietly. "It's time we stopped lying to ourselves. We don't see Caewyn as a pet. We never have. She is human, yes, but she is not like the filthy pink skins. We've had her all her life. She's different."

She had been reared by orcish hands, sung orcish lullabies of wars and hunts. She had been watched over by worgs and given blessings by the shaman. She was no ordinary human they would rather see dead.

"But she is human," Graul rumbled somberly. "Everyone knows our distaste for humans. We've spread such talk to our children. They hate humans as much as we." A sardonic frown formed on his mouth. "Even Caewyn."

They had never been able to subdue their hatred for humans or the Alliance. They taught their children of their enemy and how they were scum to be slain. What pain would she feel when she realized she was human? What agony to learn that the people she was reared by hated what she was?

"She doesn't have to be," Shala announced uncertainly and gave the meat a testing poke. "She's lived her life in our ways. She… she doesn't have to be human."

Surprised grabbed the male orc and shook him out of his reverie like a blow to the head. Had his wife said what he thought she said? "What are you saying, Shala?" his voice was low with amazement.

"Orcs come in all different colors and sizes," Shala babbled swiftly, clamoring for reasoning. "She has been to the meetings with the storytellers. She has played with all the children around here, she knows our laws and games and past. What is to say she cannot be an orc? Her skin? Pah! Being an orc is about heart and strength and heritage!"

For long moments Graul sat stunned, blown back by his wife's fervor. She cherished their daughter, he knew, but to go to such lengths, to speak of the outrageous! "You're serious?"

"We have no qualms about our other children. Would you claim Caewyn as your daughter if asked?" Shala challenged.

"Without a doubt." He nodded without hesitation. Shala knew his heart and while he could deny it, if he ever had the inclination, he could never lie to her.

"Then it's settled," Shala proclaimed, every inch the proud matron in which she was. "Caewyn is already our daughter. Now, she will simply have to be an orc."

~8~8~

"So you finally did it," Shala muttered in a long exhale as she walked out of the burrow. A smile twisted at the border of her mouth with the words. They had finally stopped lying to themselves about Caewyn.

Long ago they had accepted her, now their works was to make it so with the rest of the valley. The task would not be easy but they would turn their powers to give their daughter every opportunity to be a normal orc.

A cool breeze granted from the spirits of wind kissed her cheek as she walked out in the fading twilight. Thins streams of left over light splintered weakly over the darkening world adding a touch of light to see by before they alit the torches. Sunset was always her favorite time of day and she reveled in the settling down of land and orc.

Taking a few more steps around the house, wrinkles abruptly formed along her brow as the sound of muffled battle came to her ears. The sound of fists striking a wood and straw dummy echoed mutedly through the air, giving her a hint of who it could be.

A small smile sneaked upon her face as she rounded to the back of the hut to espy one of her children fighting. Her heart always swelled to hear the sounds of battle from them. They were not like some orcs who wished to sneak or cast spells or even fire bows with a companion, they were all warriors born.

Clandestinely turning the corner her eyes spotted the last one she would have expected to see - Caewyn.

Tiny fists punching the straw dummy, the girl battered away at the old practice sack for all she was worth. Blood crusted her knuckles and stalks of straw pinned her hair. Tiny puffs of dust and dirt billowed from the thing with every punch as she assaulted the dummy.

With every punch she sniffled miserably. Tears brooked down her eyes and she kicked at the dummy with her bare feet when she wiped away the tears.

"Why do you shed tears, Caewyn?" Shala asked gruffly to hide her concern from the child. "They are a sign of weakness."

Any emotion that marked her as human had to be stifled. Orc cried but only in the greatest of distress at a lost of a mate or an amputation of a limb. They were not inclined to cry of things that were not relevant or important in the grand scheme of life as humans did.

"Mama!" Caewyn spun around in a blur. Light brown eyes wide, the girl wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. She sniffed as though holding back more tears. "I'm sorry I thought I was alone."

Stalking forward, Shala posted her fists at her hips as she looked down to the growing girl. "Why do you weep?" she queried again her voice helplessly softening.

"No reason, Matron," she snuffled trying to hide her tears.

"Caewyn," Shala voice brooked no telling of lies. Sinking to her knees she placed her hands on her thighs and stared at the girl. "What troubles you daughter?"

Wiping her snotty nose, the girl gulped and hiccupped. "The chicken seller today said I was an ugly pink skin before Popo punched him in the face." A look of injustice wrinkled her young face as tear re-brimmed her whisky brown eyes. "I can't help how I look, matron." Kneeling at her mother's side she buried her face in her tunic, her body silently wracked with sobs. "I don't want to look like this. What did I do wrong?"

From the day she looked at her reflection Caewyn realized she was different. The first time she gazed into clear water she had jumped back at herself. She had thought she looked like a normal orc before seeing herself tusk-less and pale.

"You did nothing wrong, daughter." Shala stroked the girl's mane of brown hair. A look of pain for the girl rent her face like the agony of a deathblow. How would she tell her daughter? What would she tell her? "Sometimes," she began warily, "sometimes fate simply deals an odd hand. You recall Grisha's child born a week ago with only one arm?"

Caewyn nodded, and sniffed as she looked up to her mother with wide, round eyes of a child. There was an eagerness for a parent to make her troubled heart right, ready to be mended with the balm that could only come from a mother or father.

"Well sometimes those things happen," Shala explained. "Fates deems to mold a child… not precisely the same as others."

A glimmer of hope sparkled in Caewyn's eyes with her mother's explanation. Could it be she was simply just one of those few? "Why?" she asked as all children do, wishing to dig deeper to the intricacies of life.

Shrugging carefully, Shala forced an aura of certainty to veil the scrambling frenzy of her mind. "Well, sometimes they are curses set upon a family, sometimes it can be a misfortune, other times it is but random cruelties of fickle fate that we cannot comprehend."

"So…," the girl sniffed, the tears receding, "so I am not really, _really _a pink skin? Something just made me look like one? Just like the one armed pup? I'm just… not exactly right looking on the outside?"

Pain twisted Shala's hearts into knots but she smiled. Perhaps they would regret their decision but the course of action had been taken and the would not retreat from their plans made earlier. "That's right my daughter." She rubbed her back comfortingly to soothe the last of her pain. "Because you are different, like the one armed child you will have to prove yourself harder than the rest, but no matter what you look like you are an orc through and through."


	7. The Price of Warriors

Heat and smoke and ash billowed and belched and swirled in heated rage all around Caewyn as she stumbled through the choking fog that gripped her. Head low, and one arm covering her nose and mouth the girl tried to find a break in the oily vapors that hampered her vision. Her hand pawed at the intangible peril that swirled around her as though swimming on land. All about her splashes of red spurted through the air like splashes of water and flashes of color dashed before her or in the side of her vision in a chaotic dance.

Oft she had held dreams of such with smoke and screams and heat, but this was no dream. The burns, the coughing, and the screaming told her the attack against the valley was all too real.

Squeals of the pig-men, Quillboars, shivered and split the air in pain and anger as they assaulted the valley 's main burrow. No one had been able to see the attack coming nor though the pig-men so brazen.

One moment there had been normalcy of merchants haggling and children playing and people judging wares and fruits and meat and the next the pig-men had dropped from the ridges and barreled through the gates with their wild zeal. They came with their curbed scythes swinging and stabbing with their long tusks.

Like most things in Durotar they were a constant threat but normally they left the valley alone in favor of waylaying travelers and the loners that stalked the sands. Who was to have known they would have ever had the gumption to attack the heart of the land itself?

They rushed in like fel hounds and attacked with a fervor that caught the orcs off guard. They scattered the flames from the bonfire in the center of the square and stalls and awnings caught ablaze like kindling. Hyenas they trained as pets leapt upon people, chuckling and rending green flesh and arrows sang their deadly song through the air.

In moments the place had turned from tranquil to deadly, but the orcs, never to be caught off guards for long, rallied fast against the attack.

Weapons were gathered and warriors sang their cries to the sprits as they boiled over against the enemy. With enough rage to be any match to the pig-men. The fighting through the market was thick and Caewyn found herself in the middle of it. At 10 she was no novice to blood and death that went on around her but the chaos was another matter.

Everywhere, the smoke seemed to hold pockets and alcoves of surprises. She would stumble across a dead orc, their eyes white and their bodies leaking their blackish ichors or pig-men stuck and squealing in agony. She stumbled across ruined fruits and dead chickens and boars as she drifted through the chaos. Her entire family had been in the square and now she was all alone.

Stifling the panic as she had been taught, the girl dipped into a warriors crouch. Pawing along the smoke, she bit on her bottom lip to surprises the urge to call out for her family. All that would do was give away her position and possibly distract them if they were locked in battle.

All her thoughts were to get to the rim of the smoke and hope to keep clear of the fighting. While she had been taught how to battle since she could walk, she had also been taught to choose her battles. The pig-men were large brutes. One could easily overpower her and slay her where she stood if they had a clear shot.

Yes, the best thing to do was get out of the smoke and wait until the chaos lessened.

As if on cue, her prayers heard by the spirits, some of the smoke shredded before Caewyn's eyes. The cool kiss of hot but clean air met her nose as she moved to the edge of the barrier and hope her family did the same.

Just as she thought to make it to the clear, a hunched being bristling with spike blocked her vision. She only came up to its knees and the creature seemed to cast his shadow over her like a giant would.

Snapping her head up, the girl danced back a step to look up fully into the creatures face.

A large, piggish snout coated with blood wriggled ferociously in the midst of the smoke and the ugly brute being snorted at the girl. The spikes upon its thick back stuck out like pins a tears of flesh, green flesh, hung like old, bloody scraps on them.

With an ear bleeding screech, the creature raised a curved axe, and brought the weapon down to slice her skull. The rusted edge hissed through the air, promising death if Caewyn did not act.

Scrambling backwards, Caewyn fell hard and flat as the axe swung down. The armament missed her by an inch and dug into the the sandy earth.

Shocked, the creature snorted in rage of missing her. Forgetting the axe, it raced towards her, hands outstretched to strangle the life out of her tiny body. It's hands, almost claws, scratched at her body, digging deep scars into her flesh along her shins and legs as he scrambled forward and she scooted backwards.

A soft cry spurted from her mouth with each new scar but she dared not scream and bring more of the pig-men to her. No, she had to handle this herself. Hands scrambling for something, anything, Caewyn scooted away from the creatures as it torn long marks along her legs and even her stomach. As it lunged at her, trying to leap forward and grasp her neck, she snapped a leg up and kicked the beast.

Her foot throbbed from the desperate action, but the pig-man fared worse. Agony marred its face as a tusk cracked and broke off. A clawed hand came up to its face just as Caewyn's hand found something, finally.

The thing in her hand burned her skin but she didn't dare drop her only weapon. Gritting though the pain she lifted the weapon, a smoldering piece of hefty wood and stabbed it at the Quillboar. Her aim was true and the hot, poker end jammed dead into its eye.

A sicken pop then a sizzle hissed like a sack full of vipers through the air as she struck with the desperation of survival. The white of the left eye popped on the sharp point like a balloon and bubbled like the whites of an egg on a hot slab of rock. Thin streams of gray smoke with a wrenching aroma that shrived her stomach curled up sinuously into the air, cauterizing and digging into the brain all at once.

An inhumane screech of pure agony slit the air and Caewyn jumped up upon her scarred legs, pressing the advantage. Using all her strength she rammed the stick deep into its eyes until she felt the orb give way and she thrust the poker into its brain.

Thrashing and twitching wildly the beast man careened its left. It's body shaking with palsy before lying still in a heap.

Reveling in her victory, Caewyn leaped over the body. Her heart raced madly in her chest, pounding against her as though beating to get out. Blood raced through her veins and she felt her limbs quiver and grow weak.

Her first true kill! She had killed a person in true combat! By all accounts she was a warrior!

Looking back at the dead creature pride filled her heart. Turning away she felt as though one hundred pig-men could not defeat her! Though the battle was terrible and the attack doubly so nothing could bring down her joy. Nothing!

A certain swagger entered her step as she slipped out of the fog. Abruptly, her smile faded like a dream to the harsh reality of combat. Her footsteps paused as she saw two she had known all her life. What pride she once felt vanished from her heart as her soul chilled to the bone.

Pain like she had never known, cold and icy gripped her heart and she felt a lump of disbelief rise in her throat. Blinking she hoped the image would leave and she would wake up from the nightmare. But then, this was no dream and certainly no nightmare that met her gaze.

On his knees Graul's head dipped to his chest His muscles sagged and tears dropped from his face. His body was carved in a hundred cuts and slashes against his skin brining out the sable blood but he noticed not one. His shoulders shook and quivered in silent sobbing with the pain that went much deeper than the skin.

Tears flowing down the creases of his face they dropped upon his chest as he held a dead Shala tightly in his arms….

Her body was washed in blood and a wound upon her torso left no doubt of her demise. Her axe, her prized possession dripped blood into the sands that told she had slain more than a few before she met her fate.

Stunned by the blow of grief, Caewyn watched her father cradle her mother and sob over her body. The lump in her throat began to grow but no tears fell.

Matron couldn't be gone…. She couldn't. But the limp body, once so full of life, begged to differ.

All the thoughts of her first kill fled at the sight of her mother there. No more would Shala be there to instruct her daughter or teach her the ways of the warrior. There would no longer be a glint of pride in her eyes that her daughter cherished to see or the tête-à-tête her mother and father often fell into.

Yes something had been won, the birth of a warrior in a moment of chaos, but so much more had been lost.


	8. Om'riggor

"Zar'gaul, Narlek, Durst, Kwor Ruk'nar, Drost, and Sirn," Graul repeated the names of his sons with a quiet rumble of pride entwined in his voice. Walking to and fro on the muddy red banks of the river that separated the land of Durotar to the equally as inhospitable Barrens, the orc's onyx eyes scanned the land for troubles lurking in the distance as he continued. "All of your brothers have passed their Om'riggor, Caewyn." He stopped directly in front of the growing girl now a lass of fifteen, his eyes pinioned upon her like a lance struck true. "And now it is your turn."

For a girl of fifteen Caewyn had sprung up like a well rooted tree once the roots dug deep. At thirteen her puberty had kicked in like a rampaging tauren in a jewelers shop filling in the parts that had once made her seem gangly and scarecrow-esque. Her hair, to the middle of her back, was a tangled mess of blood and dirt and dust she kept tied in a leather cord, but gleamed like burnished copper when the sun glared down upon her. She had outgrown her diminutive stature topping in at what an orc would deem short at an even six feet. Scars ran her body like a trace work leaving pale-pink stories mapped about her sun kissed skin. Her eyes were whiskey brown and sharp with the sense of combat.

Dressed in merely a brown woolen loincloth around her waist and a faded black wrap around her chest along with a brown satchel slung at her left side, the girl seemed the epitome of a warrior bred in the harsh wastes of Durotar. A spear made of rough wood and a sharpened stone sat with a practiced ease in her right hand to finish off her warriors regalia. Her pose, lazed but ready to become tense at a moments noticed marked her a fierce fighter trained by the most fearsome warriors. She seemed to fit right into the company of orcs had her flesh been green and her mouth tusked.

Stabbing the butt of her blooded spear into the soggy ground Caewyn gave a firm nod to her father. "I understand, my father," replied the girl and her lips quirked into a smile. "Like my brothers I will return to finish the rights of my Om'riggor. Hopefully," she jested, "with less scratches than Kwor."

A lurid thundering of raucous laughter rumbled up behind her from her brothers. Seven all told, he males of the Strongspear line were massive beasts. The youngest of the men, sixteen, towered a head over her six feet and each of them were broad, thick limbed and built like oaks just as their father.

Crossing his bulging arms, Graul scowled to hide a grin at her quip. "The Om'riggor is not to be taken lightly, Caewyn. When you pass the river you will be alone with but your spear and your heart to seek the beast to slay for your right of passage. You will come back victorious or not at all."

Caewyn dipped her head solemnly at the chastising rebuke. "I will not forget, father."

Untangling his knotted arms, the elder orc laid a war calloused hand on her right shoulder. His thumb traced her sun burnt skin and traveled over the puckered edge of a pink scar crawling up her neck. A faint smile twitched upon Graul's rough face at the girl ready to become a woman and take her place in the warriors meetings. "I know you won't. With your mother watching down I have all faith you will pass your Om'riggor then finally be seen as a warrior to all the Horde and valley."

~8~8~

Sweat gathered in tiny beads and dribbled down Caewyn's brow as she trekked the harsh lands of the Barrens. Sun baked down upon her relentlessly, baking her body under the hostile rays and allotting no clemency from the heat. With nothing but her spear in hand, no water or food, the land was doubly treacherous for one such as her.

The Barrens, for its large hills and vast land was aptly named. The grass, so different from the red sand and soil of Durotar was a dry and tawny in long tracts of land only dotted with a few solitary trees. Hot winds whispered thougt the land spurring the stalks to dip and play with the intangible hand pawing at them.

With each step the dry grass crunched under Caewyn's feet as she marched deeper into the flat land. In someplace the grass was high enough for a full grow lioness to hide in and the girl had no doubt there were plenty stalking her. In lands like the Barrens and Durotar everything was hunted from the mightiest of the hunters to the lowliest of beasts.

Perhaps, she had considered for a moment, the lions would have been prey to take down, but the Om'riggor was not about ease. A right of passage from their people on Draenor, the Om'riggor was the last step into adulthood. An orc would have to go out along into the wilderness and kill some sort of animal to claim their Om'riggor.

Many in captivity after the last war with the Alliance had never had a chance to take their Om'riggor, but all the line of Strongspear's had taken their rights and many had passed and she would not, for all her deformities, fall short of the task before her. Time honored traditions had to be followed and she would come back home no longer a child, but a woman.

A sad smile perched upon Caewyn's lips at the thought of the right that now faced her. So many years had passed that had led her to the brink of child to adult. Her matron would have been so proud to see her daughter take her Om'riggor but the cowardly Quillboars attack had ended her. Still, she had died with honor and though they all missed her they knew she was watching them with all the warriors who died fighting and thrashing for honor and glory.

Thinking of her mother, Caewyn felt confident her matron would have approved her tactics that she herself had drummed into her daughters mind, especially for the moments of her Om'riggor and all battle that would be to come if she survived.

"_You are not as your brothers_," she recalled her matron say without fail in their long hours of training alone. Drenched with sweat they would sit under a scraggly Joshua tree in the hottest part of the day as her mother used the sand as a board to teach her of tactics along with a bit of figures and rough writing and reading besides. She would look at her daughter, her eyes cold and understanding all at once. _"I do not say this to make you feel inferior, Caewyn, I tell you this as warning and truth. You will never have the brawn of your brothers bearing or the muscle. You have some strength, and some sinew enough to take many, but head to head their power will win. You cannot be the bulled headed warrior that they are, swinging wildly and rising headlong into the fray, embracing death as a lover. You, daughter, must be the wiry warrior, the wily berserker who picks her spots and strikes with alacrity and savagery. Speed, slenderness, you must use these as you use the spear. When you have found the spot that will ensure you a victory then you may become the reckless one, but not before…."_

Golden sun slowly fading into night as Caewyn's reverie drew to an end. The sky was painted in muslin sheets of dark scarlet and lilac as the heated orb bid the world adieu. All the day she had stalked and hunted and slipped through the plains, her heart and mind winding the old paths that had brought her to her Om'riggor and the person she was to be.

Hadn't she taken her mothers words to heart? Caewyn thought as she scaled an only slightly challenging hill for a better vantage. Her calloused fingers gripped sun warmed rock and bits of grass lodged into cracks as she climbed the knoll. Bloods sprang from her fingers with the sharp cutting of stone as she scaled the ridge, mingling with the red rock, but she pushed forward, her mind still swirling with the thoughts and memories that pursued many in their Om'riggor.

All her life her parents, even her brothers had trained her without relent. They challenged her in every way they could fathom. They encouraged ruthlessness both against her and in her. She could still remember dragging herself into the home bloody and bruised and trudging through weeks of pain against more combat. They fought and sparred and sparred and sparred until she could beat every one of her brothers in single combat.

Still, a look of chagrin donned her face, that did not take away what she was, a freak, and a mutant. No matter how good she became, no matter if she were a warrior, no matter how well her matron's training sank in, there would always be that one thought like a splinter lodged in the back of all their minds. She was different. Like the one armed babe that hadn't been fortunate to live, like the warriors who came back with limps and withering and diseases that slowly gnawed away at health, she was different only worse. She stuck out like… like….

As she scaled the knoll, her eyes pinioned upon a blatant figure stomping through the sun withered grass on the other edge of the hill. Freezing, the girl barely dared draw breath as she stared at the creature from her perch. Luckily the sun was behind her, masking her body if one were to stare at her granting a bit of cover against the threat that appeared.

With the receding rays, the last of the sun did well to embellish the creature, displaying it like fanciful war gear.

A raptor gilded in bright purple scales and large bright blue markings that donned its torso marched through the bristly brown grass atop the hill. The creature, large and serpentine was a thing of beauty. Its tail was thick and waved dangerously back and forth with each step. Razor claws like newly forged daggers twitched to its own rhythm and dug mounds of dirt from the earth. A maw of yellow, pointed teeth gnashed and clicked in front of a long red tongue that was thick with venom.

Bold and vibrant the raptor stood out from the dun and browns of the barrens that surrounded it. Compared to the insipid yellows of the giraffes and the dark tan of the lions and hyenas the colorful raptors did not fit in their world of low grass and muted hues.

Just like her.…

~8~8~

Twilight was just falling as the males of the Strongspear family finished their meal. Splintered wooden plates usually licked clean were left with scraps of food and uneaten meat that sat cooling and perched upon by flies. The jugs of ale and mead had become warm and even the cactus apple surprise the now ancient Ta'ni had brought by was bereft of any touch.

A normally raucous table filled with fighting and laughing and good natured jostling was eerily silent as the brothers and their father waited for their daughter and sister.

Worry niggled at their hearts like a maggot eating at their flesh. Thick fingers drummed upon the table and the benches creaked as the shifted nervously. Every so often a pair of eyes would flicker to the door before looking away at some other feature of the home as they let thoughts of ill dance in their heads.

Was she alright? Had the elements done her in?

"She should have waited another year before taking her Om'riggor," Zar'gaul finally grumbled, unable to bear his feelings longer, and rubbed the thick sprouts of his growing beard nervously.

Despite his anxiousness Graul scoffed a scolding sound to his son and crossed his arms. "I thought she was ready and she thought she was ready. There was no need to wait," he chastised to his eldest inwardly hoping he was right.

"And I thank you for the vote of confidence, Popo," Caewyn agreed as she entered in the ramshackle house.

The orcs remained frozen as the girl approached from the darkness. Spear in one hand, like a staff she padded towards the long rough hewn table. Long scratches stood out an ugly red of fresh torn flesh against her tanned skin and a large mark ran along her thigh where her brown satchel hung.

Stopping at the end of the table, the girl dug into the leather satchel. Blood dripped from between her fingers as she hefted the mass in her hand and deposited it to the table.

Smiles crossed all their faces as the looked upon the prize their kin had wrangled. The heart of a mighty raptor!

"Hearken to me my children, my kin," Graul began the ancestral words as he rose slowly from his perch. Pride flashed upon his face and his chest swelled near to bursting as he placed a hand on her opposite shoulder just as he had done on the start of the day. "Today, Caewyn, my daughter, you leave the old behind. No longer are you a child. You have passed your Om'riggor in the sight of the ancestors and the spirits. Today you are a warrior and today you are no longer a girl, but a woman."

Burning pricked at Graul's black eyes to speak the words to the last of his children. Blinking hard to fight back the tears, for a moment he thought he caught a glance of Shala behind the girl, grinning at them both. The faded mystic blue image of her only lasted for a moment before being closed in by the final darkness night wrought upon the world.

Stoically fighting back tears he smiled widely, feeling the spirit of his wife close for the occasion. "Your mother would be proud, Caewyn," he managed steadily and could almost feel her hug at his side, her hand upon his heart as she used to do so many years ago. A single tear stared from his eye and brooked down his coarse face as he declared with certainty, "Your mother is proud."


	9. A Warrior's Duties

The land of Ashenvale was a tranquil place. Quiet, placid, sagacious with the seniority of endless age Ashenvale was a land that bespoke of beauty and love and a mix of nature and beings all melded into one perfect flow of life. Serenity encompassed the lush, leafy retreat that was as deceptive as a dagger wielding goblin. Lush greenery and foliage of deep teal and lilacs and cerulean filled the thick coppices and glades of the ancient forest incorrigibly rife with thorns and animals all too eager to rend into a hapless traveler.

High above, the plumage the trees clustered so thick the day seemed as night and shadows guarded the realm in deep darkness, safeguarding the dread beings that lurked and waiting to strike in the sable alcoves that sheltered them. Only rare slants of sun slid obliquely though the breaks of the trees, and the rays that filtered through the waxy leaves transmuted into a blue tint keeping the world in eternal light that always seemed to enrapture the world before true darkness fell.

Verdant underbrush and tangles of grays and greens foliage hedged every stony path that spidered through the land. Made of opalescent white stone, glowing green moss creeping in striations over the cracks in the pale rocks, the trails looked as thought they had been coaxed from nature by stoic, loving hands. Every thorn and bramble seemed to be delicately tended to by the wayside as though apologizing for the intrusion of the aged stone into the natural world.

The land emanated old, old druidic magic's and even the trees seemed to hum with the power of nature.

Ancient edifices, long abandoned, sat like sleeping giants that nature reclaimed with sinuous fingers in the form of straggly weeds and thick vines. They draped over their cold moon hued stone, slowly reverting what hands had made back into natures embrace. Ivy wrapped buildings that had fallen into ruin and disrepair amongst the land sat skewed like broken epithets to the past in beautiful tragic destruction that told a story louder than words could fathom of tragedy and love and loss.

To Caewyn, the dark land reeked of elf.

A scowl wrenched Caewyn's face as she stalked thought the underbrush of the elven realm like a shadow against the darkness. Face painted in dark hues of brown and dull green to mingle with the land, her body shifted through the fronds and the deep brush with only a little rustling.

Hatred sparkled like ice in her whiskey eyes as every sidelong, heel-toe step fell soundlessly on the loamy earth. She hated creeping about like some scoundrel. Warriors did not, were not, supposed to tip-toe and slither through the brush but such notions did not apply when in the elven lands of Ashenvale.

As the stories were told by the elders, when the orcs came to Kalimdor they learned quickly how sneaky and clandestine the night elves could be. Ambush was their stock and trade and they used their skills with a deadly advantage. They had doomed many a war band with their innate ability to meld with their precious leaves and grass like parts of the land itself. A group of orcs could be trying to fell a tree and then a company of the warrior women would appear as though formed by the wind, leaving none alive, only to slink back into their precious shadow again with no trace.

Yes, when in the forest one had to adopt the pitiful elven tactics simply to confront them toe to toe, or at least have any sort of chance. Disgusting, yes, but also needed.

As if proof wished to be summoned from that thought of ignoble camouflage, a click and a whiz of air sliced through the quiet around Caewyn. Thoughts of skulking halted in her mind as the sound hummed through the air. Her body tensed at the all too familiar noise, knowing the sound was meant for her and her alone.

Shoots of white hot pain flared through Caewyn's left arm and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from crying out and potentially drawing others to her position. Blood bright and red unlike her orcish lineage drooled down her arm where a projectile had cut her flesh, telling that her attempt to stalk through the land had not nearly been good enough. But then, she allowed a grim smile, neither had the shot. They knew she was there but hadn't been able to get that good a look at her.

She almost barked out a laugh. Their mistake.

Roaring a war cry, the warrior woman happily shook off her eleven sneaking and broke from the brush in a surge of power. Leaves and twigs and light roots quivered and shot through the air as she abandoned her attempt for subtly for her true nature.

Landing lightly on her feet, Caewyn looked the woman she had become five years ago after passing her Om'riggor. From the fifteen year old to the twenty year old she had banished whatever childish remnants had lingered on her form. Her body was a sinewy whipcord of strength honed and toned from years of training and battle. Her hands were rough and calloused from fighting and her body carried far more scars since the day of her Om'riggor, for after that day her duties as a true warrior had been set in motion.

From the harsh sun and her wiry figure she looked like some strange dreamed up phantom in the midst of the forests darkness. Her armor was red leather and black links of mail, for plate did not give her the flexibility needed for her style of combat. A dagger chipped of red rock into a fine point with jagged edges lay in a sheath at her left side for close combat. Her spear, Gronsblood, the family war spear she had earned against all her brothers sat in her left hand.

Ancient, the spear was crafted of wood from the great trees of Draenor and forged of the metal from the planet as well. Red leather tassels, stained with blood, hung where metal and wood met, braided with trophies and trinkets she had collected.

The first of their family who dubbed himself Strongspear had forged the weapon and so the weapon stayed in use from generation to generation.

Twirling her spear about, the woman barked an insult in orcish to the person who dared shoot at her. The shaft whirled like a deadly song through the air as she finished the motion and held the spear in her right hand. The spear stopped the twirl and she held the spear against her arm like a splint as she ducked into a sinuous crouch. Right leg outstretched, left bent so that the knee barely skirted the lush land, she held her left hand on the moist soil whilst her right gripped the spear in a backwards handling.

Muscles tensed as goblin springs, heart pounding, her umber eyes narrowed into slits as she sized up her new foe.

A plum colored elf male, golden armor stained with gore and splashes of blood stared at her. A crossbow hung reloaded expertly in his grip ready to be fired again at the enemy. Distress and mourning hewed his face like craggy rock etched with the hammer and chisel of melancholy. There was a pouch for treats at his side, but no pet indicating the wellspring of his grief.

He was probably, she surmised, a fighter going in retreat from the gulch where the orcs fought for lumber. She had been in that battle and from the last moments she knew, and her brothers knew, the Alliance had been bested for another day. Knowing the fight won, they had slipped away to slay any of the stragglers who had joined as mercenaries for the battle and were headed off after their defeat.

A more eased smile perched upon Caewyn's lips to at long last be fighting a foe instead of lurking in the brush. She was always happy to be fighting, even if it was out of the gulch and in a more reclusive glade where things did not shift to her advantage.

Lifting his crossbow, the elf snarled angrily at the warrior. His lips curled back displaying the bicuspid fangs his race bore. They glinted like flashes of silver in the pale light before he muttered a curse in his ancient tongue. Pallid, moon colored eyes narrowed, he squeezed the trigger just as one of Caewyn's brothers, Zar'gaul, broke through the foliage.

Twisting his lithe, limber body at the rampaging new threat, the elf had only a moment to leap out of the way before the burly beast that was the eldest Strongspear child crashed through. Clad head to toe in a mismatch of silvery and blue plate, the monster of an orc snarled at the elf.

Startled from his shot, the elf's finger pulled the trigger as he danced away. The quarrel shot from the crossbow from the surprise but the aiming was off and went betwixt brother and sister zipping harmlessly through the leafy bowers.

Before he could load another bolt, the meaty, plate bound fist of Zar'gaul slammed into his jaw with the force of a pure bred orcish warrior. A crunch of bone snapped sharply through the otherwise tranquil air from the blow, cutting away the peace of the land in an instant.

Head snapping back, the elf reeled away holding a hand to his jaw. His crossbow fell limply from his hands as the pain sliced like a lance through his face. Blood oozed from his mouth in a steady stream but the mandible refused to work correctly.

Taking another step back he had only a moment to realize the girl who had fought with the Horde in the gulch had moved. No longer was she before him but at his side with her spear close to his feet.

With one last back step, the elf stumbled over the spear unable to hold his jaw and keep his balance at the same time. Air whooshed under his body as he fell hard to the leaf strewn ground. Blinking rapidly he looked up to see the star-like breaks in the canopy instead of the two Horde. Doom filled the elf's heart just as the pair struck like lightening.

Leaping like wolves over a carcass the pair effectively bound the elf ankle and wrist to keep him from escaping. Laughter echoed from the pair as they reveled over their prisoner so easily caught by simple tactics.

"A fine catch, brother," Caewyn commended once she finished tightening the leather bindings over the elf's wrists. The leather cords dug cruelly into his wrists and already his purple hands were turning a tint of blue from the tight binds cutting off circulation.

Grabbing the bound hunter by his knife-like ears she pulled at them until tears came to his eyes and shook his head. "We'll have some fun for the last night we're here with this one." Her tone implied a night filled with knives and implements of torture.

Zar'gaul bellowed a deep throaty laugh at his sister. "That we will, Cae," he agreed before rising with the elf. Grunting, the towering orc hoisted the elf over his shoulder with little difficulty. The bulk of the elf twisted and squirmed to be free but the orcs grip was firm and unrelenting.

Shifting the prisoner a bit, his eyes, dark as a moonless night, like his fathers, went over to her bleeding arm. A frown of disapproval formed his lips, sending his good humor away. "You should mend up a bit, sister. I'll take the elf scum back to camp. There'll be celebration aplenty tonight and if Kwor's party caught anything we might even have a little fight go on."

Fighting a wince of pain from her throbbing arm, Caewyn nodded. "Wise words brother." Stalking behind the orc she unsheathed her knife from her side and waved it teasingly in the elf's face.

Blood dripped from his awkwardly swinging jaw but the terror upon his visage was evident. He knew the tortured fates of the captured in the hands of orcs and knew what would soon be his fate.

Chuckling, the woman slashed the leather strap from the elf's shoulder. The pack on his hip tumbled to the ground and spilled out like his blood. Small vials of various hues, extra wire for his crossbow, flint, and a small roll of bandaged fell out like a gift from the Ancestors.

Slapping her brother's arm like a pack animal to go on, she smiled wickedly at the elf as he was carried away thought he dense, azure glades to meet his death at the hands of his enemies.

At least that was probably what he assumed.

A chuckle fled Caewyn's lips as she squatted down to pick up the contents from the cut pouch. Plucking up the wadded roll, she began to unwind the woolen bandaged to tie up her wound and be on her way.

Though rumors in Alliance camps told horror stories that Horde tortured their prisoners they were far from the truth. They were not as the old Horde. They valued honor and tormenting a prisoner for no reason was in no way honorable. They did not shed blood from the defenseless to appease demons now. Only in dire straights to gain information did they torture and left those methods to the best of the best not simple grunts as they. All of the dagger waving and ominous tones were but for show and a bit of fun to their prisoners.

Fear would engulf them all the way to the camp before they were simply put in makeshift prison and guarded. Most were dumbfounded, others relieved. Only every so often did the they have two prisoners fight one another in cases of boredom and that went to the extent of their supposed torture with prisoners. Other than that they would be either used for negotiations or simply killed.

Wrapping the bandage tightly about her arm, the woman deftly tied the end with one hand and a bit of luck. Blood soaked through making a stain but little else to make the wound trouble.

Satisfied the woman patted the woolen wrap gently and stood up to catch up with her brother. Abruptly she froze as her ears pricked at rustling in the bushes not far away….

~8~8~

Algan Spellsteel was hopelessly lost.

Running haphazardly through thick dark forest would do that to a man, he noted grimly as he stumbled like a drunken giant through the woods. At 22 Algan was not a man made for life in the wilds. Body strong and bulky with muscles granted from long years of working at his fathers side in the Blacksmithing trade he looked like a man who could trek the wilds but he was a scholar complete on the inward.

Raised in Stormwind all his life with brief trips to Dalaran, the mage cut a handsome figure for a human. His hair, jet black and silky, was neatly trimmed in a military style and his eyes were Kul'tiras sea green. He had wooed many a woman in his years of study but never gloated over his good looks,

Grumbling like a disgruntled old man the mage forced his way through the underbrush with enough noise to wake those in the Emerald Dream! All his life he had worked towards the ways of the arcane and now they seemed absolutely useless in the throes of vines and foliage and _dirt_.

A portal? Yes he could have summoned one to be away from the forest and back into the civilized country of man, but he was not a person to leave his friend behind. Talron, that stupid elf, had stomped off after the route from the Horde. He had every right to grieve for his lost Halia his wise, ferocious owl, but it was foolish to go tromping about with the knowledge of Horde savages on the loose.

"And even stupider for me to go after him!" Algan cursed loudly.

Tromping through the undergrowth he cursed with enough vehemence to make a sailor blush at every snag his robe caught and every cut from thorns that sliced the flesh of his ankles and hands. Burs hung like adoring peasants to the end of his purple robe and dagger branches cut at his cloak making holes that would have to be repaired for their enchantments to work properly.

"Talron I swear I will kill you myself when I catch you!" Algan seethed darkly as he finally lumbered through a break in the forest brush. The mage partially stumbled as he entered the clearing from the thick woodland but caught himself before ungainly falling to his face. A last thorn scratched at his calf almost in mocking goodbye but he ignored the pain.

Marching forward he searched the tranquil blue glade for signs of his companion. It had been the way he had gone… he hoped. Breathing hard he bellowed with all his might. "Talron? T-" he paused as his right slipper-ed foot hit something.

Looking down he observed the potions he had just forged for the elf before the lost battle. The brown leather strap of his pack had been sliced leaving frayed edges and the content had been poured out.

Algan's brow knit in wary curiosity as he slowly knelt down. His spell clever fingers glided over the glass of the potion bottles. They should have been cold instead they were warm indicating recent handling. "Talron?" his voice came in a breathy whisper of fear.

Abruptly something hard and wooden like a staff slammed into his chest. A blue blur ran past his peripheral vision on his right as his word went sailing by in a dash of dull colors. A blink spell came to his lips but was knocked away along with the wind out of his lungs as he fell to his back. His world jarred for a moment and cleared in the same instance as another spell came to his lips.

Before he could utter a word, the cold tip of steel pricked at his throat and one he never expected to see came before his vision.

A face. A human face stared back at him with ferocious intensity. Her umber hair that came loose from a leather cord was bloody and matted against her skin and her flesh was a tracery of scars but there was no doubt she was human.

Her eyes searched him rapidly, studying him with an intensity that made him want to look away from her curious eyes. She canted her head to the right like a confused dog as she stood over him, spear poised.

She looked as though she had never seen a human before!

Relief fled in a sigh from Algan's mouth at the sight of another human. Strange or not, it was at least his kind. His shoulders slumped a bit in the moist grass in relief as he leaned up on an elbow in the loamy soil. "You surprised me, my lady," he chuckled breathlessly. "But I suppose I surprised you with Horde running about. I'm looking for my friend, an elf, have you seen-."

He got no further as she fiercely jabbed the point of the spear in his neck. Her muscles, trained for the kill, thrust down as she jammed the steel through his exposed airway like a spear coming down upon a plump fish.

Blood spurted like a scarlet fountain from the man's throat as the spear dug deeper into his jugular. Surprise danced in his bulging eyes from the abrupt attack. His hands, quivering and weak, flew up to the spear and weakly clasped over the wood as though to dislodge the steel but already his life was slipping away. A haggard, bloody wheezed rankled through the air like old gnomish machinery trying to come to life as he clamored for breath that would never come.

A feral grin donned Caewyn's lips as she jammed the spear down so that it dug into the ground under him. Jerking the spear horizontal she finished him quickly incase there were anymore to come after him.

The body flopped and flailed in violent spasms and jerked in the last vestiges of life before lying still on the soft earth.

Thus ended Algan Spellsteel.

The word "why" was molded on his lips but she couldn't have understood even if she knew Common.

As the body lay still finally, Caewyn peered hard into the misty, soulless eyes of the human. Deep thought wrinkled her visage before she jerked the spear up from his neck. Another cataract of blood spilled out, leaking into the soil from her action but no more movement was evident.

Taking her dagger she knelt and cut the pinky finger off and tucked it away to be another war trophy.

With a sigh, the woman rose and looked down at the lifeless carcass of the human. Disgust churned in her belly at the sight of such an creature. There was an certain special hatred for the Alliance pigs that seeded deep in her heart like some accursed weed. How had something so weak and frail and ugly ever survived? How had such a creature ever thought to stand and brave against the orcs of Kalimdor and the Horde as a whole?

"Pink-skin scum," she spat at the contorted corpse before melding away into the forest to join her brothers and her people.

~8~8~

_A/N: One more chapter to go. _


	10. The End of a Beginning

Heat shivered up in wavering ripples against the barren vermilion lands of Durotar. Plump, black carrion birds wheeled hungrily overhead, their eyes on the hunt for the flesh of man or beast who were too weak to survive the wastes hostility. A few times the black, winged bodies would blot out the rays of the relentless sun in shadow before all the fury raged down upon the land again.

For all the desolation, life still thrived amidst the perilous lands. Chattering scorpids scuttled along the desert floor near scraggly singular trees their fiery, beady eyes roving over the land for gobbets of flesh and quick lizards under the red rocks. Snakes basked on boulders in the heat like limpid ropes, their bodies to lazy to even flicker out their tongues.

Quillboars snuffled and languished in the heat they had been reared into. Squeals occasionally broke through the heat as they spoke with one another from the far distances warning of travels and enemies alike.

Along the hard land a loan boar snuffled hungrily in the midday heat. Ambling along in the excruciating temperature the boar seemed not in the least penetrated by the rays. Its dark red hide baked in the sun as it raised dust from its travels. The snout wiggled and patted the barren sand, whiffing and huffing dust in search in small clouds of red for the odd plant.

Hunger, survival, was always the goad to prod the peoples of Durotar out and about.

Sniffing along, the piggish black eyes found a pale sprout of a Peacebloom, nested in a crack of a boulder and limp in the sun. Grunting in satisfaction the boar trotted hungrily over to the plant.

As its teeth dove to chomp and the plant a squeal shrieked wildly from the beast. Blood splattered from the creature like red rain. The eyes rolled in the back of its head as it collapsed to the side. The beast did not even know what caused death to claim him as his life fled from his body.

From a rocky outlook above, Caewyn smiled in feral satisfaction. The spear laid embedded deep into the creatures hide like the pole to a banner.

Hot wind stirred the girl's russet hair in playing as she raced down the outcrop. Pale clouds of dust followed her trail as she maneuvered like an acrobatic serpent down the cleft to the dusty floor below.

Eager flies were already swirling about the carcass as Caewyn came to slow stop above the carcass. Gripping the shaft to the spear pressed a foot down on the body and ripped the aged weapon out of the flesh. Blood dripped from the tip steadily and she wiped the ichors fluid on the body.

"Father will be -," she began happily, then paused, her thoughts going to words told to her earlier.

Father!

Dipping down she grasped the bloody beast by its ankles. Heaving the dead beast over her shoulders she headed off in a fast trot toward her home. Her father would be furious.

~8~8~

"Father!" Cae panted as she slowed her pace to the training ring on the north side of their home.

A weathered, battle scarred hand met her, silencing the girl before she could finish. "Where were you?" the growling voice demanded. Though Caewyn could not see his face she could imagine the displeased scowl upon his visage.

"Hunting, father," the girl replied, her chin tilted up, though she flinched at his tone. Shrugging the beast from her shoulders she laid the carcass at his heels. The animal's body spurted a hidden fount of blood and dribbled into the thirsty sand and she rested a foot on the carcass. "I have brought fresh meat."

Graul grunted lowly, still not turning to face his daughter. "And that should appease me?"

"Our boars are wane this season," Caewyn protested calmly, her eyes pinioned to his bare, knotted back. "I thought a fattened boar would serve us well."

"But you missed your sparring," Graul pointed out bluntly in a no-nonsense growl.

Rubbing the back of her neck with her hand, Caewyn forced herself not to shy away from his growling inquiry. A sigh blew from her mouth and she nodded firmly. "Yes father, I know."

"Why did you miss your training?" His spear, thick as a tree limb, rapped like a thick gavel to the ground.

Caewyn did not have the proclivity to miss sparring. Not often was she late for she, as all of them, enjoyed the routine exercise to keep them strong and hearty for battle. And in the days to come, Graul knew sadly, she would need every ounce of honing and training she could muster.

The girl shrugged. "My hope was to be back in time, but I was lost in the hunt. The beast was careless and I could not help by work to his weakness."

"And you weren't careless by forgetting you were supposed to be here instead of tromping around in the heat after a foolish pig?" he rebuked but there was no reply. A grimace crossed his face like the wrinkles that gathered upon his brow. She had no excuse. Sighing, his voice lowered into a thunderous murmur. "You know what this means do you not?"

Another sigh escaped her lips as they came to the root of the matter. "Yes father. No riding with the war parties."

"For a month," he clarified evenly. Even though he faced the ring where his sons sparred, he could nearly see her opening her mouth to protest but shut it again.

A month? All for a boar? Caewyn scowled down at the beast. True, her family would eat well and then salt the rest for a later date, but a boar should not have been worthy of a months suspension from slaughtering Alliance and their elven allies.

"I know you think this punishment harsh," Graul grunted again, "but you will not be here to curse the time that goes by."

Confusion furrowed Caewyn's brow at that. Not often were Graul Strongspear's words laced with cryptic meaning. He was a straightforward, blunt orc. "Father?" her voice revealed her confusion.

Turning around, the muscled, aging orc frowned at his daughter. He had changed from the spry young orc he had been two decades ago. His face was lined with leather wrinkles tanned by the sun. His tusks were chipped from battles and his face showed just a bit of sagging flesh.

His muscles were still enough to overpower his sons, but not by much. He could swing his axe but with every swing a new twinge of pain set in. He was waxing into the realm of old age whilst his children were just entering into the prime of life.

His daughter had grown into quite the warrior since her few pup years. War paint, left on from previous raids adorned her face and body. She was clad in simple leather and mail. Nothing fancy for her ramblings. Her hair was tied by a black leather thong and her sun tanned body was limber and corded with sinew.

Across her back was the spear that dubbed the name of everyone of their line. She had earned the weapon by combat against her seven brothers and would bear the spear proudly until her death or she passed it along to any of her children.

She was 24 now and had thrived from her beginnings.

Sighing, he motioned to the darkness of their home. "We must talk." He knelt and grabbed the back legs of the boar to drag the creature to the home.

"Your command, father." Caewyn nodded curtly to his her curious thoughts and followed her father.

This was not like her father at all to be clandestine and want privacy to talk about matters. A twinge of anxiousness entered her belly like a slew of skittering lizards inside her stomach but she forced down the wariness. Whatever they needed to discuss wouldn't be so terrible, she forced herself to believe. It would be alright. Everything would be alright.

The inside of the house, as always was cool and dark, relieving the heat from their backs. The burrow spoke of home but there was an emptiness that lingered in the shadows was a teal light that was Shala once glowed.

Leaving the carcass at the door, the aging orc called off the worgs that greeted them and licked their hands like newborn pups. His steps thudded against the red rock and smoke black walls as he hunkered down on a stool next to the fire-pit.

Lacing his thick fingers together, he leaned back against the cool wall and observed his grown daughter. "You are a woman, Caewyn. You have become a warrior in your own right and passed your Om'riggor. You fought for right to wield the family spear."

"You commend me father," Caewyn thanked with only a hint of pride in her voice. She had never been a boasting, gloating person but she was proud of what her in her deformity had gained her.

Waving his hand, he suppressed a smile. Any father would be proud of what their children accomplished and he was proud of each and every one of them. "I am only speaking of past deeds to show where you stand. This you already knew and your survival has proven your determination and skill. I am confident of your prowess and your bearings as a warrior. Therefore," he sighed, "therefore, Caewyn I have taught you all I can, and I think it time you went out from this place for a time. There is more to the world than Kalimdor or the warrior city."

Thin lines knit upon Caewyn's brow at his words. Her face darkened in shadow as she took a step towards him. "What are you talking about, father?" her voice was a frail whisper.

Why did he stumble about what lay in his heart? Why did he not confront the issue that linger just on his tongue?

"What you have done in the past lays like a path behind you. Where you walk you leave footprints that etch your past deeds. Now is the time for you to make more prints, to gather more strength and knowledge and power… elsewhere. You will leave this land for ones across the sea. I have friends on the zeppelin in Ogrimmar who will take you to the Eastern Kingdoms, Stranglethorn Vale to be exact." He leaned forward. "You will stay there, expanding your knowledge of that land until I call for you again; until I think you have grown beyond the borders of home. "

She stepped closer. "But father wh-."

"Do you dishonor yourself by challenging your patron's command?" Graul rumbled dangerous to hide the pain behind his words. Never had he enjoyed throwing his weight about, using his dominion as leader of the family to reign in his children and force them into obedience. He encouraged them to ask, to challenge, to discover, to peer beyond the surface, but for this, this she could not know.

As of late things had gotten worse since the Cataclysm as it had been called. Thrall was all but gone from the seat of war chief and the son of Grommash Hellscream sat upon the throne. Little by little Garrosh was growing intolerant of the other races of the Horde. Where Thrall had welcomed the outsiders, Garrosh favored his people above all. Though he had let Pandaren from the newly discovered land join into the fold he treated orcs as though they were superior to everyone that made the Horde a whole. Like fabric that made an entire blanket he was slowly clipping away the strands that were not pure orcish bred people. He had no love for humans and if he saw Caewyn, if her deeds drew attention to her so close….

No. Better to wait until Thrall returned. Thrall after all had given his approval on Caewyn long years ago.

Garrosh, he guessed, would have been less accommodating. Already he was making sparks with Vol'jin and even insulted the Dark Lady! There was no way he would accept a human into "his Horde". Garrosh was the type to only see the outward. He did not see into the heart; the heart that made up the Horde as a whole entity to be feared.

Words that so wished to spring forth from Caewyn's mouth danced upon the tip of her tongue. Like a flame, the hearts desire to want to know glowed in her chest and flickered and danced to be set free in a flooding conflagration of anger and pain directed to her father.

The Horde was everywhere and in everything, fighting and dieing and thriving. Why would he make her leave now when she had a chance to prove herself? To show others she was more than a freak and to be seen just as an orcish warrior?

Swallowing the fire of her words that truly burned like acid down her gullet, she shook her head slowly. "No Popo, I will not bring dishonor to myself by disobeying. I will do as you ask. Like I have always done to prove myself a faithful daughter. To make you _proud_."

"Don't you try your tricks, Cae!" Graul could feel his walls breaking, his growl melting. Though she was not as strong as an orc she could find vulnerability and strike at it. She knew she had his heart. She was a daddy's girl and if he could throw his weight around so could she.

His throat felt blocked with a burning boulder as he banished the emotions away. He had to be strong, he couldn't crumble to her in a battle of words. "I have reasons for my decisions. Now do as I say and prepare. You leave on the morrow," he ordered in a low rumble.

So soon? Caewyn felt her heart tug, but stifled the pain. Squaring her shoulders she nodded, every inch the dutiful daughter. "At once, father," she stated firmly and marched off past the aging orc to collect her things.

Graul's heart sank as he stood all alone in the main room. The crack and clang of weapons outside and the grunts of his sons fighting in the heat and the buzzing flies were the only sounds that filled his ears.

His heart bled like a slow wound from burning poison as he traced back over what he'd done. She wouldn't be gone forever, he tried to reason to balm his agony. It was for her own good. Until things were settled she would just have to stay out of the attention of the Warchief for her own good.

In the meantime she would be alright. She was a fare warrior and Ancestors knew there would be plenty of trouble in Stranglethorn to keep her occupied. She would have battle and glory and as long as she did not hate him for what he had done everything would work out in the end. Hopefully.

Rubbing his rough cheek, the orc looked down to the dusty floor. His shoulders sank as though in defeat as his heart twisted with worry and love and despair. "Guide your daughter, Shala," Graul sighed, wishing his wife was still living and there to give her sturdy, sage advice and comfort. " For the journey she is face to take, she'll need it."

**~8~8~**

_A/N: So, yep, that's her backstory. I might write another to explain how she came to be in Stormwind for a little while. Who knows. Thanks everyone who read and reviewed! I hope you enjoyed. :3  
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